


Lemniscate

by AceofSpeight



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adoption, Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Sex, M/M, Minor Character Death, No Seriously Angst Like Whoa, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-26 06:13:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1677734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceofSpeight/pseuds/AceofSpeight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the summer that ruined him, Dean finds he's failing college. Castiel is the graduate student who is assigned to help him. </p><p>They often find themselves on opposing ends, yet, they always manage to meet in the middle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lytle

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally supposed to be a dandy romp where Dean hates college and wants to bone the student-teacher. Then it turned into a downward spiral of angst and pain and blood. Oh Supernatural, you break everything you touch.
> 
> Warnings: Explicit sex, coping through alcoholism and sex, emotional abuse, and Dean being an absolute fucking wreck. Oh, and language.
> 
> Supplements (Because I have way too much time on my hands.):  
> Dean's playlist:  
> [Sing me the blues ](https://open.spotify.com/user/1268215867/playlist/3jkOWknsWVWh9A5TI4Toq1)  
> Castiel's playlist:  
> [An acquired taste](https://open.spotify.com/user/1268215867/playlist/6a3N4VG0C28aGayg8rhWt1)  
> The boys' fashion: Am I sorry? [Absolutely not.](http://www.pinterest.com/sarahjuanablack)

Dean's pencil clattered to the floor for the fifth time since class started 12 minutes ago. He made use of the air bubbles in his brain by attempting to balance his pencil across his nose to quell his mind-aching boredom.

The pencil seemed to be steadfastly convinced Dean's slightly crooked nose-- broken 7 years ago when some dumbfuck bully from one of their many dumbfuck high schools tried to manhandle Sammy and Dean had launched himself at the guy--just didn't cut it however, and so for the fifth time since the class started 13 minutes ago, Dean slouched to his left to grab the No. 2 leaded writing instrument.

A girl to his left shot him a nasty glare and passed a disgusted sigh through her nose. Dean hardly had the energy to roll his eyes at her passive aggression. So he stuck his tongue out at her instead.

College sucked.

He'd employed himself back into academia for all of three weeks after summer break ended before he'd decided the second he had a bachelor's degree in his hands he'd hit the road and become a mechanic. Like his old man had been once. Like Bobby now.

Dean tapped his pencil on the table in front of him--another lame-ass thing, the school didn't even have desks. Instead the screwheads used large long tables where hoards of kids would have to squeeze in beside each other, elbows knocking while they vigorously spelled out every obnoxious adjective the professor recited. He concentrated on breathing.

That's right, his boredom had reached a level so note-worthy he stooped to think about his _breathing_. What a lame fuck idea this was, going to _college_.

College called to people like Sammy, his 17-year-old brother who loved books more than girls, more than a good burger, more than Dean, probably. Logic, research, whatever-the-hell-else that involved thinking rather than actually using your hands to make something tangible, those were Sam's thing. 

Not Dean. Dean was an action man. You wanted to go out and start a riot? Sam would research the cause, Dean would lead the charge. It's just how it'd worked in the Winchester household.

He looked at the clock. 62 more minutes. And don't think Dean wouldn't count every last second down.

 

* * *

 

Castiel ran his fingers through his hair--probably too long for the sweltering heat of late August in Tennessee--and took a look at the map again. His brothers had given him some pretty nasty looks when he told them he'd be road tripping alone, and without a GPS system.

All except for Gabriel. Gabriel had laughed and given him a hard butterscotch candy as a parting gift.

Castiel's tactical mind preferred maps. They were essential to understanding the layout of the land fundamentally. GPS systems turned with your car, so you had no way of knowing North from South without referring to the technology. Maps were straight forward, painstakingly discovered and designed, and Castiel appreciated the hard work of those who had contributed to the human race by charting the land and graphically assigning it to a travel-sized parchment he could carry with him.

It was remarkable really, how people had forgotten the real miracles in life.

The afternoon shadows struck harsh angles along the dented paper, so Castiel turned around to lay the semi-glossed map on the hood of his mini-cooper. According to this, he'd missed the 840 turn, but he wasn't far. He could hop onto the 109 and still make good time. 

He should have just taken the 231, but he'd wanted the see the reservoir before heading to his final destination. All this just to skip around Nashville, figuring he could romp around the musical capital of the Bible Belt when he wasn't half drenched in ice tea-flavored sweat and carting all of his belongings from Boston, Massachusetts to Murfressboro, Tennessee.

Castiel knew where to go now but he lingered outside. The Southern sun burned a hole in his back but he welcomed the fresh breeze as a nice change to the stuffy ambience of his vehicle. Despite Father's wealth he'd always erred toward the frugal upbringing of his childhood--so many brothers and sisters along the way, how many had fallen prey to the system never to be seen again or to make it to voting age, he wondered sometimes-- and didn't own too many belongings. Or so he'd thought. Then one departing gift became another and another, and the whole packing debacle avalanched to result in his entire car filled to the brim with storage supplies, school items, ties, eating utensils and of course, Gabriel's candy wrapper.

He stared absent-mindedly at the child who kicked the seat in front of himself in the next van over. His mother stood at the gas pump and looked tired but not entirely displeased. In her hand she held her keys, and she leaned her weight on her left side; a small belly protruded where she'd eaten one too many candy bars with her son. Motherhood suited her, Castiel thought.

Castiel wiped the sweat on both sides of his nose and readjusted his sunglasses. He slid into the driver's seat and laid out the map in the passenger seat next to him, creasing it so it showed the areas he was stationed at and headed toward.

He started the car and put it in gear. He paused at the lip where the gas station curb met the road, and turned on his left-hand blinker. He was almost there.

 

* * *

 

Dean meandered his bow-legged walk around the quad. He hated his campus but the quad didn't make him want to ralph. It had large trees--" _Sycamores_ Dean, the American Sycamore is one of the largest hardwood trees and can grow to almost 100 feet tall, are you even listening?"--gnarled and ugly as all hell with their marbled rotting bark that peeled off like sunburned skin off a caucasian tourist in July, but they felt to Dean oddly comforting.

He looked at the plastic lounge chairs the student council--Intercultural & Diversity Affairs, excuse his fucking French--had put out on the lawn in hopes for students to come together to discuss global and social issues. Instead, freshmen made use of them by making farting sounds as they chafed their Levis across the surface. Now, Dean didn't consider himself prudish, or even all that mature, but sometimes he couldn't for the life of him understand what the fuck most of his age group even thought. 

Hell, what most _people_ were thinking. Not that he gave a shit before, but lately--lately it'd been grating on him.

He moseyed through campus, walking passed the brick library and coming to the parking lot. He dug into his jeans and fished out his keys, subconsciously rubbing the grooves along the metal shaft.

He paused in front of his car and smiled. He didn't give a fuck about people. Sunshine and his Impala: the only two things that would be on his mind for now.

The leather interior of the '67 model sighed as he pressed his weight into the driver's seat. He adjusted the mirror--it never needed adjusting but Dean had his habits and if they calmed him down who the fuck had anything to say about it then--and grabbed his sunglasses from the dash.

He rolled his neck, revved the engine, and rumbled out of the parking lot without being able to tell anyone one thing about what his class had been about.

Dean drove passed the Town Centre--with a goddamn "re" instead of a normal fucking "er" it's fucking Tennessee where do they think they get off being pretentious snobs--literally just a Target and TJ Maxx with other assorted flat, "modern" suburban-designed shopping buildings lined up with an outstretched parking lot taking part of the view.

He took the long route through the city, not to admire its many _charms_ \--note the sarcasm please--but because he avoided the highways like the plague. Dean came to MTSU--Middle Tennessee State University, go Blue Raiders or whatever--from Sioux Falls, South Dakota, where getting places meant taking roads through town and dammit if Dean didn't feel the closest he could to home while driving his baby through a town where if he squinted he could almost pretend _was_ home.

That was the reason he told himself. It had nothing to do with a hot day in June just that summer.

He had just enough time to head to his rented out one-bedroom house and grab some dinner before he headed to another class. Against Bobby's preference Dean couldn't stand the idea of another year of campus life in the dorms. Since he was going into his junior year, which was when students were required to find off-campus housing, Dean was able to get his own place in town. Swinging his own place had been somewhat difficult--Dean was a popular guy, as he attended MTSU on scholarship for the Men's Baseball team and damn if that scout hadn't almost sold his soul in order to get Dean to come out and play for them--but he'd managed batting off invites to room with his teammates. 

When he'd first arrived in Murfreesboro he'd found a job at a local bar called the Roadhouse. It was the one bar in the college town that didn't cater to the main 18-22 year old frat boy, and rather attracted blue-collared working men and their women. After two years of getting in good with the owner--a surly middle aged woman who toyed the line between motherly and acting as a lieutenant colonel to a 18th century British battalion--he got the oh-so-coveted weekend bar-tending shift, and living life with tips sure made things easier. 

He pulled into his driveway, meticulously centering the Impala in the middle of the cement. He hustled to the door, starving for food and impatient for it.

His boots squelched against the laminate floor as he made his way into the kitchen. He shifted his weight while noticing he'd forgotten to take his sunglasses off. He placed the lenses on the counter and opened the fridge door, mumbling to himself in the familiar way he'd always done. A habit from his father. 

Yet like his surrogate father, Bobby, his first reaction was to go straight for the beer. He popped the cap open and took a long swig. His eye twitched at the bitter taste of Rolling Rock and he set it down on the counter with a light clunk of aluminum against linoleum. He drew his attention back into the fridge, frowning when he saw he only had a half-eaten plate of taquitos, some Chinese takeout that looked iffy at best, and a pie half-eaten straight out of the pan.

Taking a moment to eye the taquitos--protein, he probably needed more of that to keep in shape but hell, baseball season wasn't for another 6 months anyway--he grabbed the pie without blinking. His hand reacquainted itself with the Rolling Rock, an old friend cradled in his palm. 

He considered sitting at the kitchen table but thought better of it, instead dropping to the living room floor and placing his food and drink items on the coffee table. He leaned his lower back against the couch and turned on the old record player, fingers deftly placing the needle on the record while taking a bite out of his pie.

His car, the record player--they were only two of many old things he housed in these walls. Dean loved modern conveniences as much as the next Gen X kid but he was an old soul, and as the sound of static and John Fogerty crooning through the old speakers permeated the airwaves in this small house in Tennessee, he soothed his throat with Missouri beer, and subdued his soul with these Southern comforts.

 

* * *

 

The first thing Castiel did once he'd arrived at his new apartment was change his shirt. He grabbed an old one--from Raphael most likely, it seemed as though it would be a similar fit--and it smelt of dust, but Castiel would have to do a load of laundry anyway and he could already feel the sweat that would soon coat his body once he finished hauling in everything from the car, so it wasn't a big deal.

He brought in one box after another, taking time to meticulously place them where he'd need the items to go--everything was categorized from socks to dental floss; Castiel had painstakingly marked the outsides of the boxes with a list of items that were inside each package.

He had just cut open another box with a recently purchased exacto-knife when his stomach elicited a growl. He surrendered to the will of his body and ordered a pizza. He poured himself a glass of tap water while mentally reminding himself to buy a filter later, and finished it in three swallows. He wiped the wet corners of his mouth and looked around the bare apartment. It was smaller than his room on Beacon Street, but that didn't mean much. The apartment was plenty large enough for one person.

His mind wandered. He thought about the perfect proportional height to raise the bookshelves he'd need along the right side of the living room wall.

Sometimes people would ask Castiel what he was thinking about when he stared off into space. They probably imagined it was something romantic--politics, poetry--and Castiel never noticed the drop of their faces, the concern in their brows when he told them he was thinking about Chi charts.

Math fascinated him.

Probability, logarithms, etc.: everything calculated and easily determinable when instructions and patterns guided only one correct answer to appear. One didn't need a creative mind or a sharp mind in order to succeed at mathematics. One only needed to work diligently and to have faith in the system. Fool proof.

So Castiel dreamily thought about ratios as he sat during traffic, in the doctor's office, in line at the grocery store. He had nothing better to do, because to him, nothing mattered as much as math.

The pizza arrived and Castiel tipped the delivery boy a little too much. The money wouldn't be missed. He settled in the living room and used one of his unopened boxes as a makeshift table. He spread one of the napkins across the fold of his knee and folded a piece of cheese pizza with peppers in half, eating with gusto, yet with enough restraint to prevent unwanted grease from dripping onto his clothes.

The sound of his own chomping disgusted him slightly, and so, dropping the pizza, he pulled his phone out from his back pocket. He rummaged through an already opened kitchen box and pulled out a glass tumbler. Castiel turned on the music to his phone and dropped it inside the glass.

Castiel listened to the music, ate his pizza, and thought about proportions again.

 

* * *

  

The days dragged on and Dean hardly gave a damn enough to count them. 

He forgot class, weather changes went unnoticed, and even his friends, acquaintances--he forgot about them, too. The events of his summer were relayed to his coach, the athletic staff, his teammates and other Blue Raiders athletes by some unknown information source. No one offered him anything more than an awkward grimace and a "Hey man, how's it goin'?" in spite of the tragic news.

It's as if the heat of summer had expanded his universe and kept everything at bay from him, giving him space to reassemble. But time continued on, and Dean didn't reassemble himself. He still felt the claws of guilt--inadequacy, if only he'd done one of the 500 things he should've done then maybe maybe another member of his family wouldn't be 6 feet under--filter through his bones and drift to flow down his spine and through his body like a poison.

Where once there were sorority houses littering his weekend there were now empty Jim Beam bottles dropping from his fingers as he lay catatonic and alone. College, the grand adventure he'd at one point in time made sure to enlighten Sammy with, became a burden, a Hell, and here he was stranded on an island without anyone speaking his language. His will was slowly unravelled.

Coping introduced him to Johnny Walker and Jack Daniels.

Dean came into the Fall season having fallen, broken, disfigured--literally, it was all fucking literal he had the damn scars to prove it--and everyone around him knew it. The residents in Murfreesboro kept him at length, giving into that niggling feeling that there was something about the young man that demanded their distance.

Then one day Dean looked at his calendar and realized midterms were just around the corner, and he couldn't remember what classes he was taking.

 

* * *

  

There was an initially awkward couple weeks at the beginning of the term. The awkwardness still managed to wiggle its way into certain corners of his job description, but Castiel was coming along fine within the MTSU academic department.

He spent most of his hours going over his mathematical thesis and grading the many papers the math department teachers gave him to deal with. The math teachers seemed to trust that a graduate student coming from MIT had his priorities in order and could be trusted with mere state school work that ranged from half-assed required work to entirely respectable efforts.

Tennessee was different than what Castiel had expected. Admittedly he'd succumbed to the stereotypic ideal that most of these Southerners would dress in boots and flannel, and attend church every week. But he found that the students at MTSU were no different from Boston. They drank just as much, partied as hard, and even managed to curse on equal standing with Bostonians.

There were times he missed the windy intersection of Tremont and Boylston, the little Italian shops selling his favorite prosciutto and provolone stuffed peppers, and the industrial brick buildings near the Waterfront in Southy, but Castiel was content here.

Castiel never considered Boston his home. He'd lived there for 12 years--Father found him, chose him from all the children and he'd managed to grab Uriel as well, the two outcasts in a home full of them, he'd never gotten an answer as to why he'd been chosen--but Boston was frigid in the winters when he'd had to sit in the sweltering suppression of his family's presence, and it tore dread in his stomach in the summer when he'd lie in his room without the AC on, listening to the heavy trodden sales associates of Newbury Street take shelter among the trees shading below his brownstone during their breaks.

Boston had taken part of Castiel's heart, a part of his heart that was no longer with him. It carved out a chunk of his soul that Castiel simultaneously missed and wanted nothing to do again, like a lover who'd embarrassingly refused his steady advances.

No, Tennessee was different, but it was refreshing. He almost wondered if he could stay, and then brushed the thought aside. He knew better than to question his fate.

  


* * *

 

"Dean you knew the deal," Bobby bit out on the other end of the line.

Dean scowled at nothing in particular. Yeah he knew the fucking deal, but without Bobby breathing down his neck in person he found it a lot harder to follow through. Especially whenhe was sitting down and listening to someone yammer about subjects unknown--and to Dean literally not even note-worthy--surrounded by a bunch of kids updating their Twitter feeds.

"Yeah, but Bobby--"

"Don't you sass me boy. We agreed you'd finish college. Getting on academic probation isn't what I would call follow through. You've been back one semester, boy, how much do you have to screw up to fail every goddamn class?"

"It's not academic probation Bobby, it's just a stupid warning from the counselor," Dean grumbled. He was pissed off, what the fuck kind of school called his guardian--Bobby wasn't even that, Dean was 20 he could take care of his Goddamn self--to tell him he was failing his classes? "I'll get back on the course again Bobby, I'm sorry." Everything royally blowed here.

"Oh you'll _be_ sorry boy when I tell you our new deal. You're not slacking off this time. You're gonna apply your damn self in that school or else you won't have a home to come to. And since it's pretty damn clear you didn't do _jack_ regarding our agreement, I'm gonna sweeten the deal. You don't get at least a B-average GPA to finish college then you can kiss a job over here at Singer Salvage goodbye."

Dean startled and felt his gut drop to his ankles. "Wait a minute that wasn't the deal!"

"Son I only hold my deals as true as the participant does. And you done made a fool out of me. So now we're trying this again. You gotta to get your ass in gear, boy. If after you get your degree you still wanna come home crying with your tail between your legs then far be it from me to keep you away. Have I made myself clear?"

The hair on the back of Dean's neck bristled and he grabbed the nape roughly, sliding his fingers from his hairline to his shoulder muscle. A sense of dread mixed with rebellion and adrenaline infected his body, but he respected Bobby too much to put up any kind of argument.

"Yes." 

"Have I now?"

"Yes _sir_." Dean tacked on the end. And with a click Bobby's presence in the right side of his ear--and the major pain in his ass--left Dean alone.

Dean threw his phone clear across the room. Never mind he'd have to put it back together again later. He always thought breaking things would change the situation, take away the spiking anger that pinched wrathfully in his gut like a kidney stone, but even as the phone smashed against the wall and splintered into three separate pieces, Dean felt nothing but hollowness envelop the cavity in his chest.

Why the fuck did he even have a body if it always felt so goddamn empty?

He thought about the jealous blood in his veins, screaming at him--"we don't fucking belong to you we want something better, someone better, we had someone better and it wasn't fucking _you_ "--and it took a moment before he realized his scalp was straining under the force he used to pull his hair from his head.

Dean released his grasp and took a long, deep breath. It shook as it seeped out of his body. He closed his eyes, his mouth, and breathed into his nose. He let out the air again.

His anger became an old dilapidated building finally getting the boot for having no use and deriving no one pleasure or security, crumpling in his chest.

Fine. Fucking Bobby wanted him to apply himself, great. He'd do it. Just to get back home. This was temporary, it was all fucking temporary--a means to an end.

 

* * *

   


Castiel idly thumbed through his bank statement when he'd realized with a bit of embarrassment that he still had yet to call Father and his siblings since he'd first arrived.

First he emailed his professor from MIT, Balthazar, as he'd insisted on a first-name basis with Castiel, who had graciously recommended Castiel to MTSU in the first place. He kept it short and to the point, since he knew Balthazar was probably going to read it on his phone anyway. He didn't want to think about what a long email could do to his friend while he undoubtedly drove over the speed limit through Cambridge traffic.

Next he called Father. He wasn't available, but he made sure to leave a message with Naomi--one of his close advisors, he'd assumed, since no one except for those in his family who went into the family business seemed to know what the family business was anyway. He let her know that he was fine, and that things were going well in Tennessee. 

He called Raphael next, although the call was brief. Raphael hung up without really excusing himself, but Castiel wasn't offended. Raphael had two moods: placated or furious. Castiel had been fortunate to never have experienced his anger. Only once, though it was undirected at him--his fault though, entirely his fault--and he tried not to think about it.

He did not call Uriel.

His conversation with Michael was pleasant, almost enjoyable. Castiel tapped his fingers along his graded papers as Michael told him about the antics his children were getting into. His oldest brother's children--he couldn't really call them his nephews since he couldn't really call Michael his brother, not really anyway, just like he couldn't call her sister--were dear to Castiel, for reasons not entirely explainable. 

Castiel remembered watching them when he was younger, taking them to the park while Michael and his wife went to their marriage counseling meetings. He would watch them swing their arms like primates on the metal equipment and he could feel something mollify him. He'd felt like wrinkled laundry; the warmth in his heart seemed to smooth him down, not with a scorching iron like he'd thought would be necessary to frighten the creases in his soul away, but like steam seeping through the screen of his fabric.

He ended the conversation with Michael, having promised he'd call again around Thanksgiving. The children missed him.

Red hair and the smell of lilacs blurred his vision as his eyelashes swept down in a lazy blink.

Castiel sighed through his nose and stared at his phone. He thought about the hard butterscotch candy that lay on his bookshelf. He disregarded the notion.

 

* * *

 

Dean wouldn't have noticed Castiel so quickly if it hadn't been for the outfit. He was on his way to meet with a student-teacher who would be "putting him back on track" to get his grades up. Bobby had been serious about his threats and Dean didn't take those lightly. Besides, if his grades continued to slag Dean would lose his scholarship since it would put him out of requirement to play for the baseball team.

But as Dean walked down the corridor looking for some nerd with a slouched neck and glasses probably, since the guy was apparently going for a thesis in math, or so he'd been told, the pants distracted him. White fucking pants, paired with a white button down, a blue tie and gray plaid blazer, black shoes and belt.

What the actual fuck.

I mean, Dean wouldn't have said it looked bad, but holy _fuck_ who wore shit like that in _Tennessee_? Dean actually had to stop for a moment, look around and make sure there wasn't some Italian photographer about to burst from around a corner and start fiddling with the guy's tie and sunglasses. When none seemed imminent, he started up his pace again, but didn't stop staring. No one else seemed to have Dean's fascination with this gentleman before him, and since Dean himself had become something of a walking invisible being, he too, went unnoticed.

This gave Dean the opportunity to really check the guy out. Starting from the bottom, he noticed the shine of lesser-worn black leather shoes--only slightly scuffed at the tips, and the white ankles that protruded from the guy's white jeans.

Again, fucking _white jeans_ man. Skinny jeans. Jesus Christ.

He tucked left, Dean noticed.

The blazer came at a respectable length, hitting the tops of his thighs, hiding his pants' pockets from view. The belt matched the leather of the shoes, something Dean thought as pretty fucking classy for a guy hanging around a state school. 

He wore a white button down with a thin blue tie--one of those light-but-not-pale kinds of blue--that was surprisingly crooked, as though it were an afterthought. He wore Ray Bans to top off the look, because that's exactly what it was, A Look, and Dean didn't know whether to scoff or to admit his resigned approval. 

He suddenly felt remarkably underdressed in his black long-sleeve cotton shirt and jeans--ripped not from style but from all the times they got caught in the underbelly of the Impala while he worked on her.

The guy was sporting a black leather messenger bag, which he absently held onto with his left hand, and had his attention turned to his phone with puzzlement, as though the phone were either uncooperative or unfamiliar.

It was just as Dean stood about a shark's length away, the man lifted his sunglasses and revealed two blue eyes that--oh fuck those were nice--caught Dean's attention.

Dean must've made some kind of noise, otherwise the guy was just intuitive through his spine and could sense Dean ogling him. He fixed his stare on Dean.

It was definitely a stare. It wasn't a glance, a gaze, no-no-no. Dean thought maybe the guy could be a security guard if he had the inclination, because just now he felt like a kid busted for underage smoking by a cop who was two seconds from calling his parents.

"Dean Winchester?"

Dean paused for a moment. Fucking _figured_.

"Uh, yeah," he moved to shake the guy's hand.

Or he would've, but the guy was paying absolutely not one fucking bit of attention. He stared down at his phone again, frowning.

"All right, it looks like we have the office to ourselves," he looked up and ignored--or possibly he was so clueless he just didn't register--Dean's outstretched hand. "Come with me." He began walking down the hall.

Dean looked at his hand one moment before dropping it and rolling his eyes. Wonderful, he's got a marionette in charge of bringing up his grades. Dean sauntered down the hall, following--he didn't even properly introduce himself, fuck, this guy _definitely_ wasn't from around here--the guy in the tight white pants.

 

* * *

 

Castiel was in the middle of playing a particularly challenging game of Sudoku when he saw out of the corner of his eye a man's gait stutter and then halt. He looked up to see a tall young man staring at him with a suspicious poker gaze.

He wasn't entirely unused to the expression--growing up in so many different homes, people staring at him as though he might break or steal their belongings, he got used to it quickly--so he didn't think to acknowledge it as rude.

He had been told by one of the professors there was a student who needed extra tutoring. The kid was going through a downward spiral and managed to fail all his midterms--the ones he bothered to show up for at least--and Castiel would be sure to whip him into shape.

Castiel, you're the perfect thing for him, Zachariah had trilled. You're hard working, dedicated, he'd said and then given the desk a little thump. This kid is lazy, just lazy, he needs to be shown how a real academic applies himself.

And hey, he'd said, if the kid doesn't comply, we'll rip away his scholarship. There are plenty of other players on the baseball team with star status. That Adam kid looks promising. 

It wasn't as though Castiel had a choice in the matter, but he wasn't entirely disgruntled to help the student out. He didn't consider himself an outstanding tutor, but the idea of someone who'd made it through two years already just to be taken out of college so _easily_ unsettled him. He'd help him out.

He had faith. 

"Dean Winchester?" he'd asked. The young man's tongue darted out to run over his upper lip, a nervous tick, a habit, Castiel wasn't sure yet.

The young man nodded just as Castiel received a text letting him know the office was free to use for his tutee. Castiel directed him to follow; they would only have an hour and he wanted to get as much accomplished during that time as possible.

 

* * *

 

The student-teacher lead Dean into an office that had two closed windows with the blinds shut. A light peach color pervaded the room and the furniture seemed a bit French, fancier than Dean would consider for an office belonging to Professor Zachariah, who taught the Necessity of War in World Politics. He would've figured a more apocalyptic type of interior design.

The guy settled his things on the desk, still not paying much attention to Dean. Dean swung his arms lightly at his sides and looked about the room for something of interest to capture his attention. Aside from the baroque angel sculpture in the corner of the room, Dean found nothing remotely of import.

He was just about to open his mouth and ask, with just a hint of sarcasm, if he was being tutored by Spock because Dean still hadn't gotten the guy's name, when the guy looked up and gestured to the seat beside him.

"Dean, please seat yourself," he said, and settled down when Dean plunked his rear into the wooden chair on the corner of the desk. "My name is Castiel Novak, I'll be tutoring you for the rest of the semester, or at least until we see a remarkable improvement in your grades."

Dean's eyes still wandered the room during the introduction, but he gave Castiel Novak a humorless smile. "Great," he responded without enthusiasm.

Castiel took a pen and held it between his fingers, lightly grazing both ends with his opposing index finders. "It's come to the attention of the staff that you're failing your classes. I've taken a look at your records and there's no indication you've suffered this lack of motivation before. If you care to address the problem before we get started feel free to enlighten me."

Castiel looked at him expectantly and Dean only offered his tight-lipped smile in return. He was met with a blank stare.

"Very well. Let's begin," Castiel pointed to Dean's bag. "Why don't you get out your books and we can start."

"Uh, yeah sure," Dean sighed out. He lazily brought out his books, taking his time and looking around for a clock. He dropped three books on the desk and let Castiel filter through them. "So uh, Cas, you from around here?"

Truth be told Dean wasn't much of a conversationalist, but if his time at the Roadhouse had taught him anything, people loved talking about themselves. Maybe if he got this _Cas_ to just unload his life's story on him, the time would go by more quickly.

Cas flicked his blue eyes up to Dean from the books and held his gaze for a moment before sliding them down to the material again.

"I understand you're taking two technical engineering classes, along with the business of construction and--" Cas paused. "Elementary German. You haven't finished your language requirements I see."

Dean took a deep breath through his nose. So far his bait wasn't met.

"If I'm looking at your history correctly you don't seem to have a problem understanding the mechanics of engineering, but perhaps we can start with going over your class in construction and then go over German. It's a difficult language but not impossible to understand as a native English speaker. You've done well to chose it as a subject." 

Dean tried again. "I dig your pants, man."

Cas continued on. "You might be aware that I'm currently studying here at MT as a graduate student for mathematics, specifically working on a thesis regarding statistics. But none of the subjects here are out of the range of my knowledge so we shouldn't have a problem where we aren't at least one of us able to understand the material. As I was told, my tutelage is more to be of guidance to you rather than an informational crutch. I assume you're fine with this arrangement?"

Dean almost rolled his eyes. He was getting nowhere with the guy. "So conversation isn't your major then? Color me shocked," he grumbled.

"I'm aware we have a limited time during which I am to direct your attention to the given material you've chosen to study. I don't see how coloring you anything has something to do with it," Cas responded without even a hint of impatience in his voice. The guy was fucking robotic.

"Right well, if you're going to be throwing words at me then why don't we just get to learning German then. Somehow I think I'll be more interested in what you have to say when I don't understand the words rather than," Dean waved his hand before him in Cas' general direction. "You."

"You're upset," Cas deadpanned. "Is there anything I can do to help? As I've mentioned we only have an hour to go over this material. I'd like for us to both be soundly attentive during this time."

Dean sighed, and finally gave into his desire to roll his eyes. "Lern mich Deutsch, mein Prof."

Castiel paused and then nodded. "Very well." Castiel opened the book to a chapter on articles and rested his hand on the page. "I've come from Boston. This is my first semester. So no, I am not from here."

Dean's eyebrow perked up. "Boston? Never been. Was in Maine once though. Are they similar?"

Cas gave an almost imperceptible smile. "No, they are very different. I assume you went to camp in Maine?"

Dean's open enthusiasm dropped. "Not exactly." Dean could remember the shitty motel room Dad had cramped him and Sam in. The place smelled like tobacco and stale corn chips. He recalled stealing some Swedish Fish from a gas station to curb the hunger when Dad was gone longer than they'd anticipated. 

"Well, Maine is excellent if you enjoy camping. Boston is of another nature. Like a small big city. If you can imagine a suburb atmosphere with the ability to see Tom Brady or Jason Segel on a random occasion."

Dean straightened his back, his curiosity getting the better of him. "Tom Brady? Seriously? You just walk around and there's the famous quarterback of the Patriots, right there?"

Cas shrugged. "Myself more than others I suppose. I lived near his brownstone. I could see his children through the windows sometimes. I think they must have a trampoline since they were often hurtling up into the air."

"A fucking trampoline? Inside the house?" Dean whistled, impressed. "Sammy'd get a kick out of that." Dean could imagine his beanstalk of a brother vaulting through the air and knocking his head on the ceiling. Dean couldn't remember when he'd gotten so tall. He was still a kid at heart though, at least in Dean's mind, and the idea of having a trampoline in a house would probably launch him into a state.

"Sammy is someone you know?" Cas prompted.

"Brother." Dean corrected, and his back went rigid. He didn't realize he'd said that out loud, or the importance of saying it out loud. "So. German."

If Cas noticed the sudden drop in conversation he didn't let on. The guy apparently had a hard on for getting on track anyway, so maybe he just didn't care. "Of course. Let's go over the articles and how they change depending on the position of the noun."

Dean paid attention for the rest of the hour if only to indicate to Cas that conversation time was over. Dean hadn't anticipated it, but instead of alleviating his problem, the conversation had actually created a hole allowing Cas to peak through dangerously close to something personal. Dean didn't do personal.

The hour passed quickly with Cas doing a poor impression of imitating Rammstein's lead singer. Dean packed his books away, and made another appointment with Cas to meet at the same time, same place, two days from now.

Dean was surprised when in class the next day he understood a fraction of what Frau Dener said in class. 


	2. Ridout

Castiel studied over the notes Dean had brought for him. They'd been working together for three weeks now, with three sessions a week. After eight sessions, nine after today, Castiel was beginning to understand more and more about Dean, without knowing the exact cause for his academic failures.

Dean Winchester was an intelligent young man. Castiel found his logic followed deductive methods and through very little prompting Dean could solve problems and come to conclusions even without prior knowledge from certain subjects.

Castiel looked over the bare bones of an outline in Dean's notes, and he tapped his fingernails against the wood of the desk. Zachariah had been correct however. He lacked drive, and Castiel had a hard time understanding how to deal with it.

Castiel was not exceptionally smart. He knew he had almost no critical analysis skills and that the only reason he'd been able to succeed in math is because of his hard work and determination. Castiel had few opportunities to succeed, but of course, failure was never an option.

Dean on the other hand, had so much potential it leaked from every orifice. Castiel had come to learn that Dean had many talents: he could fix cars, he had an astute ear for foreign languages, and he stood as a talented third baseman for the baseball team. With these three skills alone Dean clearly had abilities in hand-eye coordination, mechanical thinking, vocal learning, and the list went on.

Castiel studied the student next to him. He sat mostly motionless, drumming his fingers lightly against his pants leg, looking from the notes Castiel read before him to the clock on the wall, to the carpeted floor below him. He seemed bored but not inattentive.

Castiel had believed that by practicing the act of studying with Dean perhaps that would positively impact his productivity in the classroom. However, while Dean improved his academic footwork--note-taking was a huge improvement--he still showed no class participation, which usually accounting for nearly 20 percent of the grade in several of his classes. 

Statistically speaking, and Castiel knew the exact probability, with Dean's improvement he was still looking at a D-average grade for the semester, if they were to be optimistic.

Castiel looked up from the papers. "These are a bit sparse, but they're a remarkable improvement from your earlier work."

"Gee, thanks," Dean smiled. Castiel knew that behind the sarcasm there was genuine humor.

"You're welcome," he said, "but we need to talk about your class participation skills."

Dean rolled his eyes but Castiel continued on. "Your work in class would have to be absolutely perfect for you to average out to a C for the class if you don't find a way to become involved in class activity. You've already missed more classes than you can truly afford this semester. Dean, for all of your classes you're still going to fail if you keep up your current methods."

Dean scoffed but Castiel saw concern as well. He wouldn't be sitting before Castiel, not even one minute late, if he didn't care about his grades and the potential outcome of the semester.

"Dean, how can we improve this?" 

Dean looked down and scowled at his notes. Castiel had noticed that Dean would often shut down from personal questions, and though they conversed beyond subjects from Dean's classes, something was usually said to cause Dean to become quietly flustered. Castiel wasn't sure of the catalyst, but where unrelated dialogue often claimed distraction from studies, with Dean it worked opposite. Sometimes conversation would lead them right to the studies because Dean would be so uncomfortable answering his questions he would dodge and move straight to the material. Until now Castiel had no reservations using this method to his benefit, but it was time Castiel stopped using Dean's retreat as a tactical advantage of the young man's social ineptitude in favor of increasing a statistical likelihood that would ensure Dean to continue communication among peers.

That is, rather than clamming up, he needed Dean to speak up.

Dean still hadn't given him an answer. Castiel waited patiently. Normally he'd cut to the chase and continue to prod, but he knew Dean would give him a sarcastic witticism if he pushed too quickly.

Dean dropped his shoulders and lowered his head, sighing. He looked up at Castiel, "So what exactly constitutes as class participation? I gotta find a buddy or something?"

Castiel shook his head. "You need to be active in class. This means answering questions the professor poses, attending every class, participating in group projects. We're already deep into the semester, but with an improvement in this area along with the headway you've made studiously then I think you can pull off a C-average."

Dean put his head in his hands and Castiel gripped his shoulder.

"This is good Dean. Any improvements you make this semester can only help you in the long run. You've had a rough start but many of your teachers from this semester will carry on with you for next year and if you continue to work at an exponential incline then they will be more willing to meet you with greater success."

Dean frowned at him, giving him a blank look that told Castiel he wanted to be told clearly what to do. "It means you still have a chance."

"Right, yeah." Dean slapped his hands on his knees. "Well, that's enough encouragement for one day." He moved to put his books away and Castiel stood, grabbing his own belongings. Dean scoffed quietly to himself and then paused.

"Hey uh, wanna grab dinner or something?" Castiel looked at him, somewhat taken aback. It shouldn't be strange, they'd been spending time together for a decent while and they weren't so far apart in age. But Dean had always seemed so distant, so egocentric in his consciousness, that Castiel hadn't expected further socialization.

Despite their professional relationship, it seemed Dean was extending some kind of friendship as well.

Dean fidgeted when Castiel didn't answer right away. "You know, no big deal, only if you want. I'm always starving after our meetings and usually grab something anyway."

Castiel smiled. "I'd love to join. Any place in mind?"

Dean perked up at the acceptance, clearly relieved to not be shot down. "Yeah, there's a good diner right over by Ridout Cemetery. We can take my car and I'll drop you off here afterward, if that works for you."

"Sounds efficient. Thank you, Dean."

Dean smiled, it was small, almost bashful. "Yeah, sure." He threw his shoulders back as he slid on his bag, bravado returning. "Wait till you see my ride man, she's cherry. Impala, '67." Dean flashed a grin and backed out of the room.

Castiel rested his bag on his shoulder and followed suit. He hoped the diner served good burgers.

 

* * *

 

Truth be told Dean hadn't planned on inviting Cas along for his weekly visit to the diner by Ridout Cemetery. But he knew he needed to Skype with Sammy that night, and if he was left alone in his place he'd more than likely end up finishing off the Pig's Whistle rye and forget all about it, which would leave Sam concerned and Bobby knowing he was up to no good. Whatever, it ran in the family.

But he packed up his things and, what the fuck, he needed to stay out and having an awkward butterfly like Cas around for awhile longer, so long as he wasn't conjugating German irregular verbs, didn't seem like a terrible idea.

Cas was mostly quiet from the passenger side, allowing Dean to talk about his Baby the whole 12 minutes it took to get to the diner. Cas didn't know much about cars, but he had a basic understanding of how the engineering of one works, so he followed along decently while Dean told him about how he had to rebuild the entire thing during the summer--while omitting any details as to why he had to rebuild her in the first place.

They settled down and the waitress smiled when she recognized Dean winking at her from his usual booth. She smiled wider when she noticed he has company, well dressed company who had sparkling blue eyes, a slight dimple in his chin and good manners to boot.

A few jokes were made but Cas was still his usual quiet, contemplative poker-faced self while Dean worked his charm on her, waiting for Cas to look over the oddly large and eclectic menu before Dean ordered his usual (a double cheeseburger with a double order of fries with special sauce and a taco). Cas ordered two hamburgers and a coffee, and Dean added a coffee to his order as well.

Dean smiled a lot, somewhat awkwardly, as he and Cas weren't what he'd refer to as friends. Dean rubbed the back of his neck and a small pang of regret poked at his belly, maybe he shouldn't have invited him. Cas was unimposing, but he was still an unfamiliar rock in his path, waiting for Dean to unconsciously kick it aside so he could move along.

He looked Cas over. Dressed to the nines again, Cas wore a reddish sweater with a button down underneath. It was cooler as it neared the end of October, but still sunny, and Cas kept his customary Ray Bans tucked into the front of his sweater. His dark tan corduroy pants were hidden under the table, but Dean had seen them folded up once with some kind of floral pattern on the cuff, with some snazzy brown leather shoes. He also wore a double-breasted trench coat Dean guessed was some kind of fancy designer jacket. Burberry maybe. He wondered just how big this guy's closet was, and if he only dressed up for the job.

"I've yet to visit many establishments in the area," Cas said, startling Dean from his daydreaming. "This place is unique, thank you for thinking to bring me here."

Dean shrugged and waved his hand. "Hey, like I said I'm here every week. You don't get out much?"

"No, since it's my first semester and the work is initially time consuming," Cas replied, not looking at Dean but observing the posters covering the walls and ceiling.

"You do work hard don't you?" Dean had meant to sound flippant but it came out a bit resentful. Cas just shook his head.

"I do better focusing on a single task at a time. I'm also referred to as what's known as a 'homebody.'" Castiel wore a serious expression as he used air quotes for the word.

Dean had to fight to keep his face straight. Man this guy was such a dork. But for all his blank expressions and dry conversation, Dean had found him to become a bit endearing, if that was the right word, over the past few weeks.

Maybe it was because Castiel ignored Zachariah's sarcastic comments directed at Dean when they went to take over his office. Dean also considered that it might have been Castiel's steadfast commitment to him. Dean had thought of himself as a lost cause ages ago. He'd thought of himself as a waste of space since he was old enough to understand why Dad stopped trusting Dean to take care of Sammy by himself, instead preferring to drop the boys off at various homes belonging to other "family" friends.

Fuck, he'd been right about it anyway.

"So you got a girl back home then?" Dean asked, shifting his leg under the table.

"No. But then, I am homosexual, so having a girl would be an odd circumstance," Cas responded with a hint of wariness in his eyes.

"Oh, right, sorry for assuming. You're gay then?" Dean asked, and then blanched quickly. "Cause that's totally cool, no judgment, I mean, it's none of my business." He leaned back in his seat, draping his arm over the back of the booth. "Fuck, I'm blabbering. Ignore me."

Cas shook his head in dismissal. "You've made no faux pas. I admit I'm suspicious of many of the people here, given the region. The Bible Belt isn't known for welcoming sexual diversity," he clarified. 

"Never had any problems with that in Boston? In school and everything?" Dean asked, leaning in again and wrapping both hands around his coffee. He was toeing the line of getting too personal, but something egged him on. Curiosity, he supposed.

Cas shrugged. "Surprisingly, no. I was bullied for other things in my youth, but my sexuality never came up. I don't know, maybe some of the other kids never thought of me as really gay, since I'd dated a couple girls during high school."

"But you were bullied for other things? Like what?" Dean elected to skip the "dating girls" comment. He already leaned way too close into No-Going-Back personal territory getting into Cas' sexual preference, but the bullying thing caught him. He could identify with that, if only because of all the fights he got into protecting Sam from the same fate.

"I was adopted into my family. We were an eclectic bunch, two of my brothers are African-American, and we were called the Addams Family." Cas tilted his head slightly to the right. He didn't seem upset, but the memory didn't evoke fondness either. "They called me Thursday Addams, after it was mentioned my adopted Father named me for the Angel of Thursday." 

"Your Father renamed you?" 

"Yes, he renamed all of us. As a way to accept us into the family, I suppose."

Dean stared at Cas, whose eyes were wide open. Devoid of secrets. Dean felt shocked that such an honesty existed. "What's uh, what's your real name?"

Cas smiled; it was small, hardly noticeable and Dean wouldn't have recognized it if it weren't for all the times he'd searched Dad's face so closely, scouring for a tiny bit of approval. "On my birth certificate it's James. Jimmy. They called me Jimmy when I lived in the foster homes."

"Damn."

"Yes. It's a strange upbringing, but not so different from others in theme aside from a few details."

"Come again?"

Cas shrugged and took a sip of his coffee, looking down at the half empty ceramic cup. "Everyone grows up an outlier, a little on the outskirts. We may not have been blood, but my siblings and I shared a commonality and it brought us closer. Not everyone has that within their families. Hardships can bring people unimaginably close."

Dean thought about Sam, and Dad. They'd had a hell of a childhood. Running in and out of shifty motels, knives under their pillows, stale pretzels for breakfast, beer-can Christmas trees. But Sam was the only person in the world Dean trusted, loved, cared for. Sam was the only one who could empathize, and who knew Dean better than anyone else. Cas had a point, the hardships they'd endured gave Sam priority. No one else could ever know the feeling of acid climbing up his throat when the door handle jiggled, wondering if it was Dad, or something else, something more dangerous.

Cas tilted his head again as Dean looked down, lost in thought. "Perhaps you understand what I mean more than anyone else might."

Dean looked up, his mouth had fallen slightly open. He nodded, and coughed into his hand. He had no words.

Castiel called him out of his stupor. "I seem to have gone off subject. Do you have any attachments of your own?"

Dean scoffed, but he smiled. "No, I uh, don't have a girlfriend. Or boyfriend. Or otherwise."

"Are you--?"

"Don't really call myself anything." He shrugged and laughed nervously, trying to find humor in his awkwardness. "Just horny like any other guy I suppose."

Dean hadn't thought a lot about it. At his age, homosexuality and sexuality in general weren't so easily defined. Gender normative still existed and yeah, he'd been raised by a Marine so in many ways he'd been assigned one given role to act out--feelings were bad, very bad--but with Dad sexuality hadn't been part of being a real man.

Also, to Dean, sex and romance were two very different things.

In terms of sex, Dean had plenty of experience. He'd probably have sex with any attractive thing that took an interest in him. Romantically speaking, he was mentally 6 years old. He'd always just assumed he would have a romantic relationship with a woman, since the only romance he'd ever tangibly seen that meant anything to him had been between his mom and dad. Dad had been _so_ in love with Mom and it affected him permanently. That love, that deep loyalty.

Truth be told, Dean had never thought to settle down with anyone unless he felt that kind of devotion to someone. The profound bond that once linked his parents dictated Dean's romantic decisions. Not until he felt that sense of devotion to another person who wasn't a member of his family, could he even consider any kind of commitment.

And honestly, he never expected to find that. He'd thought at one point he did, when Lisa Braeden told him she was pregnant. For two blissful weeks Dean thought he was in love, that his life was set, planned until death. No other 16-year-old boy in the world ever felt the way he did during that time. It seemed completely crazy that he should be so young, in a nightmare of a situation, and to have been happier then than at any other point in his life.

Of course, then Lisa had admitted it wasn't his. They'd been on a break when she'd dated some biker from out of town. And Dean had become just another high school kid again, dream vanished. So he'd been in love with the idea, not Lisa. The idea of domesticity, of staying in one place, safe, secure--all that became a foreign unattainable dream again.

And then, then there'd been Lydia.

"I haven't uh, been with anyone in awhile." Dean didn't have to look up from his coffee to see Cas staring at him. Dean wanted to shut up. This wasn't him, this indulgence, talking about the past, rehashing it. It happened; it sucked; move on.

But something inside Dean was screaming. It had been screaming since June 7th of that summer, when the world came crashing down on him, reaping everything he'd loved, the final straw.

And there was Castiel, sitting there, attentive. He'd told Dean about him. Dean needed to reciprocate-- _wanted_ to reciprocate he needed an excuse a goddamn minute to breathe and the guy wasn't running away, didn't seem to mind if Dean fell apart before him--and so he blurted it out all at once.

"She had a miscarriage," He looked up at Cas. Cas stared back at him. Dean wasn't sure what he expected to see. Pity, sorrow, discomfort, but Cas' face was poker ready. Waiting.

Dean could hear everything around him, hyper-alert of the goings-on that took place in the diner. His ears prickled at the sound of silverware scraping across plates and of the waitress bustling from kitchen to table.

"There was this girl. One night stand, nothing special. I lied to her, told her I was some hotshot accountant, or banker, something important. She was a couple years older than me. I was in some swanky bar, just trying to impress her." Dean shifted in his seat.

"She got pregnant. Called me up. The truth came out and boy was she _pissed_." Dean smiled, grimaced rather, when he remembered her chewing him out. 

She'd hoped the rich banker he said he was could've helped her out, but he was just a kid, and a ridiculously poor one at that. He knew they couldn't be a family, not really, but the idea of being a father cradled his heart on a stack of pillows, softening him again. He was only 19, just three years after Lisa, but maybe this time would be different.

"She was stillborn. I was there. I wanted to be there when I became--" Dean stopped to drink some of his coffee. His eyes burned at the bitterness.

"It was a girl," he whispered.

Castiel's expression hadn't changed. "You had a name for her?"

Dean nodded. "Emma."

Cas continued to stare at him and Dean felt overwhelmed. He felt like the center of everyone's attention, surely everyone could see what he was: a failure. A failed son, student, father. And Cas held him there like a pin through a butterfly on a corked board. Only during moments like these did Dean understand why John Winchester told him men don't talk about their dirty laundry. 

If Cas were truly the Angel of Thursday then surely he was judging Dean for his crimes.

"You will make a good father."

Dean jerked his head up. For just a second there, he thought he was looking at Sam. He bit his lip.

"Thanks," he said into his empty coffee mug. The diner bustled around the two men, and Dean felt lighter than he had before he'd entered the door.

 

* * *

 

Dean paid the check. He'd insisted, muttering under his breath about how "Cas had to listen to all that, he deserved a couple fucking burgers in return." Castiel let him, although he'd insisted on at least paying the tip. Dean had glared at him, no-nonsense, and Castiel sighed as he slipped his wallet into his pocket.

They drove back to the parking lot in mostly silence, but Castiel didn't feel uncomfortable. Dean had lifted a large burden from his mind, and Castiel knew it took time to adjust to the new weight on his shoulders. 

Castiel directed him to his mini-Cooper and Dean cursed, chuckling under his breath.

"You actually drive that thing? Do you even fit in there?" Castiel reminded him he'd driven with all his belongings from Boston in that car, so naturally he'd been able to fit plenty. "Yeah sure, you and all your crazy wardrobe, I can just imagine it," Dean chortled.

Castiel smiled.

He exited the car and fished in his bag for his keys. "Hey Cas!" Dean called out to him.

Castiel looked up from his bag. "Yes Dean?"

Dean opened his mouth and then closed it. He smiled and looked away from Castiel, out the windshield. "I uh," he licked his top lip and gazed up at Castiel. "I'll see you Monday."

Castiel nodded. "Yes Dean, and have a good weekend. Please think about speaking up more in class," he paused, hesitating in his speech, but pressed forward regardless. "Sometimes speaking up is an easier task than you build it up to be."

Dean stared and shook his head lightly. His mouth was a grim line, but his eyes were soft. He waved to Castiel and then switched gears, taking off and leaving Castiel with one hand raised in a light wave goodbye.

 

* * *

 

By the time Dean finished Skyping with Sam, it was near midnight. They didn't talk much, since Sam was studying, actually fucking studying on a Friday night, and Dean's mind wandered due to the free space it had acquired earlier in the day. Nevertheless the session went on for hours with Sam contentedly looking over his books, humming to himself and dutifully taking notes while Dean rolled his beer between his palms and idly listened to the soundtrack laughter of some sitcom he'd flipped on his television.

Once Sam went to bed, Dean shut off his computer and grabbed his keys. He headed back out toward the diner, but went right passed the establishment in favor of the graveyard, his Holy Place.

Dean grabbed a large can from the trunk and walked with it into the yard filled with buried bones. Loved ones were laid to rest here, and Dean didn't plan on disturbing them, not tonight. He had another mission.

He wandered away from the front, wanting to make sure he wouldn't get caught by any cops. It was close to Halloween, he was sure kids came out here often for pranks or to desecrate graves for their selfish amusement, and he didn't want to get caught mistakenly.

He ambled around, looking at the graves, reading names, wondering whom they belonged to. Tall, short, skinny, fat. Maybe they were disappointed, drunks, fathers, heroes. He knew someone with that description.

He came across a plain grave. It had a simple headstone and a fresh patch of white daises in front. Victor Henrickson, was the name. No beloved description underneath, Dean wondered who the hell would buy someone a gravestone, which he knew were not cheap, and not write fucking _something_ about the guy. Even Sam who'd Dean had never figured to initiate had thought of what to write for the obituary, thoughtfully sifting through memories while Dean quickly drank his away--real good Dean don't you think he would've wanted more than this for you? You think this is why he did it Dean--but no such luck for Victor here. 1978-2008. Young guy. Dean wondered if maybe he was in the service, although that still didn't explain the lack of inscription, or the flowers.

A familiar ache settled into Dean's stomach at the idea of being left for no one to mourn for this man's loss. For a moment Dean felt connected to Victor Henrickson.

He popped off the cap of the can and began pouring salt around the rim of Victor's grave.

Dean was never quite sure why he did this routine, but it happened when he felt particularly lost. He had nothing to hold onto tonight, not his anger, or his fear. It was only a little bit of loneliness, and longing perhaps that lead him into the graveyard at night, when Sammy was asleep and when Dad had been away. He stole into the night and picked out a grave. Around it he poured a rim of salt, and told himself it was to keep the bugs away from the flowers.

He knew it more than that the day he went back to his mom's grave to do the same. He hadn't visited it since, but somehow he knew he didn't need to. That part of his life was pure now.

And now, Dean thought as he finished the rim just behind the stone slab, so was Victor.

 

* * *

 

Castiel began noticing small things about Dean Winchester. The way a small smile brought three crows feet to the corner of his eyes, but a genuine one would make four. His left leg was slightly more bowed than this right. His nose held approximately 60 individual freckles (he was a mathematician, grouping arithmetic was a simple calculation).

Other things too: his self-deprecation, his overcompensation, his stubbornness. These things, he knew, were qualities that would not bode well with the extension of time, yet he didn't have the luxury of being the object of their attention, and so even faults became beautiful through his stain-glassed eyes.

Suddenly their meetings together seemed precious, a slice of time where Castiel could hear him laugh, watch him learn, interact with him on a level he understood not many were privilege to. Every moment he had with Dean he stowed away, locked away for later, for when he stood by the stove cooking dinner, and he smiled to himself, thinking about how rapidly Dean had improved since their last visit, or maybe something more menial, like the way he'd nudged his knee into Castiel's thigh, or when their hands touched from switching pencils.

Castiel was running on the empty calories of unrequited love.

Even war wasn't as cruel as unrequited love. War snapped its jaws and took offense, pushing and shoving inhabitants from home and house. It was a monster, a rabid dog, who knew no better. Unrequited love took you to dinner, dressed well and smiled at your mother. It cradled you in its palm, softly, gently, and then asked you for your blood, marrow, and soul. Slowly it seeped all hope and will from your body until you ended up depleted and alone, limp from willingly giving more than you were able to give, and never once regretting, because there had been love there, once.

But Castiel hadn't come to the pitfall yet and his heart still lurched at the thought of Dean. Rather than regretting their time apart, he enjoyed the time together.

Castiel watched as the light caught Dean's eyes, highlighting his irises while his lashes shadowed the edges, deepening the clarity. His teeth bent slightly inward, he saw. Dean smiled, relaying a story from a recent class.

"Cas, dude, if you'd seen the look on his face," he licked his lower lip and smiled, shaking his head. "Like, think Rick Moranis at the end of Ghostbusters. Totally, fucking, _lost_. This girl, she's crying cause she got a C man, a C. I mean, would you hear me complain about a C?"

"You did two days ago."

Dean had the grace to dip his head in guilt. He used his hand to brush aside the notion.

"Yeah okay, whatever," he rolled his eyes and looked at Castiel again. "But you see where I'm coming from right? Like who cries in front of their _teacher_ about _actually_ _passing_ the class? I mean her argument was that the reason she didn't edit her paper was because she was so intimidated by making it perfect, like how--what--how?"

Dean's palms faced the ceiling and circled each other, his eyes and mouth were wide open in befuddlement. 

"It seems to me your previous bribe was far too obvious. Maybe a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue Label appeared desperate to Professor Rufus."

"You knew about that." Dean deadpanned.

"He enjoyed it very much, if that makes you feel any better about it," Castiel shrugged.

"Thanks Mr Carson, that makes me feel just all giddy inside with a side of sparkles and sunshine," Dean palmed his face.

"Well at least something does," Castiel replied dryly.

Dean let out a surprised burst of laughter and Castiel froze. 

"Cas, was that actual sarcasm just now?" Dean slapped a hand to his knee, rubbing an eye into the heel of his other palm. "What kind of influence have I been to you man?"

"I think you overestimate your wit."

Dean pointed a finger at him. "Quit while you're ahead buddy."

Castiel gave a small smile and highlighted a few more of Dean's notes before handing them back to him. "These will more than likely be on your next test. You'd do well to study them instead of purchasing any more liquor for your professors."

"Think the crying thing would work?"

"Definitely not. Your complexion is much too fair and blotchiness is not endearing."

"Should I be weirded out that you know my complexion?" Dean grabbed his notes from Castiel. 

"Not unless you have no intention of using the makeup I purchased for you for Christmas."

"Dude, you are crazy sassy today you know that?" Dean stood up and Castiel followed suit. 

He dropped his hands into his pockets, lifting this shoulders to his ears and looking at the wall. "I suppose your repartees have found their way into my social communications skills."

Dean smiled an open-mouthed smirk, "The teacher becomes the student, classic. All right Doc Brown, I'll see you in a couple days," Dean winked and left the office, sauntering his long bowlegs down the hall.

Castiel didn't notice the grin he sported packing his things. He didn't catch the waves he offered to the rest of the staff on his way out of the building, or the way he effortlessly reached out a hand to pat a familiar student on the back in greeting. For once, Castiel wasn't lost in his own mind calculating logarithms. He was out in the world, taking notice of people and reacting to them.

Castiel went to his apartment and began preparations to make dinner. He shrugged off his jacket and let it hang on a chair. He dropped his phone into a tumbler to allow the music more volume and rolled up his sleeves to make his meal. Something with broccoli.

When he was finished, he took his food, and a beer, into the living room. He popped in a DVD and sat on the couch, feet crossed and propped up against the coffee table.

He smiled over a bite of broccoli as "Back to the Future," began to play.

 

* * *

 

It had been a normal day for Dean until he'd heard the ambulance. It shouldn't have been a surprise, he lived in a relatively large town, small city you could almost call it. Ambulances weren't an uncommon occurrence. The whining siren went off and Dean's blood flowed achingly slow throughout his body. He felt icy prickles form at the back of his neck and through his forearms and he dropped his books. 

He got out of the car and stood, walking away quickly and heading into the office where Cas was waiting.

"Dean, hello," Cas looked up from his phone. He looked puzzled. "Did you forget your books?"

Dean stared at him. He looked at his concerned face and his hands. They didn't look as soft as he'd thought they might be. They had calluses, some paper cuts, his nails were short and he had a slight bump on his middle finger where Dean could see he rested his pen while writing.

He looked at Cas differently, like he'd been a black and white text printout and was now a full color painting with surreal imagery.

Dean gave an open-mouth smirk and let out a scoff of disbelief. "You know, I totally forgot them."

He walked forward and sat on the edge of Cas' desk, toying with a playful grin on his face. He let his right leg fall lax, coming terribly close in contact with Cas' right shoulder. Dean looked him up and down, and hell, Dean let himself think, it was a nice sight.

Cas had lost the jacket-of-the-day and wore a blue and white checkered button down with a green-colored seater vest. His tie was dotted and he had a brown belt to match his shoes. He looked at Cas' throat, then up to Cas' eyes. They were wide, curious, but not enough to break whatever spell Dean was under. 

Dean appreciatively saw Cas' breath stutter once and then go quiet, and that was Dean's queue. He'd been on the reciprocating end of that move for many years, since he was old enough for people's eyes to linger in all the most adult places.

Cas played his cards close to his sleeve, but Dean had wondered about the recent attention he'd been receiving from him. Cas hardly seemed to go out of his way to initiate contact with others, and Dean noticed how when walking down the halls Cas was always in his own mind, never greeting others, only nodding and barely tilting his mouth in an awkward smile in return, but he seemed to never mind when Dean's hand lingered on his shoulder in a playful back pat. He was averse to doing anything outside his job description yet Dean noticed all of this changed now. Since just a few weeks ago Cas began to come out his shell, and he now saw the way his eyes glazed over when Dean told him stories of his past romps, as if he'd wished he'd been there.

So with delicate precision, giving him enough time to shake Dean off had he the mind to--not that he would, he could already see the guy's muscles tense, but there was no fight coming, he hadn't expected one--and reached out to grab the back of his chair.

He leaned down and pressed his lips against him. Dean wasn't tentative about it, he moved his mouth with intention. Almost immediately he got a reaction, and Cas opened his mouth to respond. Dean latched onto his upper lip and grazed it with his teeth. An upper lip like that deserved proper attention.

Cas raised himself up from his chair and Dean met him by sliding off the desk, all without breaking contact. Cas grabbed onto Dean's hips, thrusting forward slightly, pressuring Dean's lower back into the desk.

Dean cupped one side of Cas' jaw and used the other hand to wind through his dark hair, noting it was remarkably soft for all the roughness it looked sitting on top of his head like an angry bird's nest.

Dean pressed his groin, flushed and starting to stand at attention, into Cas' hip and the guy actually moaned. The bass dropped from inside Dean's throat straight to his cock and he grinned at the implication. This is why guys could be so great. Girls were great for a chase, for some tension, but sometimes Dean wanted something straight-forward--irony, sure, oh ha--without having to drive roundabout. That's why fast food existed, it's why intersections were invented. With his women, Dean seduced. With his guys, Dean _charged_.

And here was his student-teacher, a guy higher on this cultural academic totem pole, lapping up all of Dean's tongue and attention, offering himself up on a plate for Dean to wolf down.

Dean reveled in it. He reveled in the warmth Cas radiated, soaked up his energy like it was his own personal source of chlorophyl; he needed it desperately. Fuck school, fuck life, man, this was it, this was his sole reason for living--Cas' half-hard dick pressed into his thigh, his tongue sliding across the seam of his mouth. There were no hoops to jump through here, no hurdles to overcome, just fucking hot hot heat and dick and spit Dean had to deal with.

He practically purred when Cas went for his lower lip, suckling it gently between his lips and not-so-gently tugging it into his mouth with his teeth. Dean rolled his fingers along Cas' side and the guy groaned so deeply Dean could feel it in his own stomach. He tilted his head and opened wide, flooding his tongue into Cas' mouth and breathing down his throat. Cas responded, digging his nose into Dean's cheek, his eyelashes fluttering and if Dean were a sappy bastard he'd call it heavenly.

But since he isn't--wasn't, never was, never could be not in his life not _on_ his life--he wasted no time grabbing Cas' belt buckle and deftly sliding his fingers through the loop, unfurling its tangle on the metal clasp and with one tug ripped it from Cas' waist. 

Cas made a small gasp, not in surprise, but excitement. God, Dean hit the jackpot with this one. He might've been worried Cas could say no, should say no, but he had no fucking qualms about this. He wondered briefly if he'd done this before.

A sharp pang, not jealousy, but insignificance, the chance that he was only one of many, the chance his name would be forgotten and worthless among a pile of others growing among the moss of plenty, stabbed at his stomach. He clenched his gut down, moving passed the emotion--god-fucking-dammit not emotion he doesn't fucking feel anything anymore not after Dad not after the look on Sammy's face when he'd told Dean about the operation, an anomaly, it was rare but something happened, something went _wrong_ \--moved passed the fucking goddamn _whateveritwas_ and nearly ripped Cas' slacks trying to undo the button.

Dean felt a fury take over him and he channeled it, rerouting the adrenaline that started in a part of his heart he shut down since the beginning of summer and pulling it toward his stomach, his dick, and he shoved Cas' pants down.

His once careful manipulations became sloppy and desperate as he went down on his knees, his hands shaking slightly as he pulled down Cas' boxer-briefs. He licked and mouthed at the trail of course hair that went from Cas' belly to the base of his dick, sighing and shutting off his brain to only deal with this.

Sex. He didn't think about it, he just fucking did it. Because Dean was an action man. If it were up to him, he wouldn't talk, or mope, or fucking think. He would take, control, _and write his own goddamn ending._

He didn't look up to see Cas' mouth open and practically gaping at the sight of Dean in front of him, thoughtfully cupping his balls and grasping the base of his dick. He didn't see wide eyes holding him reverently, almost worshipful, as the man above him wondered at his lucky stars that Dean, _Dean was there_ before him, his mouth opening and--

 _Fucking Almighty_.

Cas dipped his head back as Dean bobbed up and down, licking and coating Cas with a thick tongue and a generous amount of saliva. It was shorter than Dean's but thick as it coaxed Dean's jaw and lips to stay wide.

It fit in his mouth perfectly, all velvety skin and vein and flesh taking over Dean's mouth and his attention. Cas groaned and Dean felt his own dick twitch in response. Dean sucked and pulled off with a pop and a slurp, he ran his tongue over the slit leaking at the tip.

Cas ran his fingers almost too gently through Dean's hair, nails scraping lightly at the crown of his skull as he carefully thrusted into Dean's mouth. Dean upturned a corner of his mouth, not moving his head but looking up all the same. Cas' eyes were half-lidded, his jaw slack, his hair even wilder if that was fucking possible. He was looking down at Dean, looking at him with awe, like he was grateful, like Dean was the only thing in his universe that understood what he needed.

And maybe in that moment he was the only person who got Cas. Got him, understood him, _had_ him there, literally in the palm of his hand, stroking him and feeding him the only thing that mattered in the world, this tangible euphoria only experienced when you lowered yourself to the most basic level of humanity. The need for touch, connection, and physical understanding.

Dean licked the base of Cas' dick again and Cas rolled his neck to the side, moaning. But Cas was getting frantic and Dean could feel his own stomach contract, an indicator his partner needed to come. He spit down on the head and began to bob his head up and down, to get a good motion going that would empty Cas of his current baggage.

Cas gasped as Dean found that rhythm, going faster and faster--lick, bob, swipe, bob, forward, back, to the base, and back--and Cas' breath became irregular. He clenched Dean's hair and Dean moaned over his dick and that was it, that's all she wrote ladies and gentlemen that's the show you heard it from us first it's out of the ball park _out of there_ _going going gone--_

Fucking Almighty.

Dean bobbed a few more times, sucking the last of Cas' semen from his slit as his dick went limp and satisfied from Dean's work. Cas affectionately stroked the pads of his fingers back and forth from Dean's temple to behind his ear, again, down to the nape of his neck now, then reaching to cup Dean's jaw, trying to lead him up, kiss him maybe, want to reciprocate--

Dean tucked Cas back into his briefs and wiped his mouth as he stood. He could feel his cock tenting in his jeans and he swallowed harshly, trying to forget about the need because he shouldn't be touched, not right now, not for this.

"Looks like our hour is up." Dean grinned and it hardly met his eyes. "We can talk more about the paper another time I guess, same time next week maybe? I won't forget my stuff next time."

Cas stared at him, shocked, not understanding how words were coming at him and telling him the body before him was _leaving_ when he'd just gotten a blow job in his boss' office, Dean's body showing him he wanted attention but the words telling him otherwise.

His tie had skewed further, his pants hung loose below his hips and he looked like he'd just survived a grenade that went off next to his ear as Dean grabbed a random book off the teacher's desk to hide his boner. He winked and left.

Dean ran to the Impala and rolled the engine before getting completely inside. His body was in such a catastrophic state he even forgot to press the clutch as he changed gears.

In five minutes flat, a new record he'd have time later to be impressed with, he bolted into his house and threw down the book--the fuck was he even still holding onto it for?--and ripped off his own belt and unzipped his fly as he fell into his bed.

He didn't even get his hand wet, his dick was already coated with a thick layer of pre-come and he slid his hand up and down, opening his mouth wide and giving a shuddering gasp as he pumped himself silly. Hard, fast--

Pink lips, he should have dug his fingers into that ass, why didn't he think to do that--

Slicking himself up and gasping without reservation, Dean arched his back and dug his shoulders into the mattress, thinking about--

Soft head, hard body, just like him, a perfect extension and it was in his _mouth_ \--

Two more pumps and Dean was done, striping himself with white streaks across his Smiths t-shirt. His mind and body hummed along together, mapping out the bliss that pervaded his entire airspace. He breathed in the salty scent of his come, tasted Cas on his tongue and dipped his head to the side, taking refuge in the feeling of ache and loss.

As he drifted off to sleep, he wondered if Cas was still standing there--hair on end, eyes like saucers, belt at his ankles--wondering what the fuck just happened.


	3. Stones River

 

June 7. It was fucking hot outside, and Dean was bored out of his mind. He'd only been back home for two weeks but the partying and drinking he'd been doing back in college had been fierce and there was _nothing_ to do in this Podunk town Dad and Sam were currently in. Dean had forgotten how different it was, how confining. Hiding out in hotel rooms while Dad fought with his devils, still chasing down thieves and crooks and whoever else to bring in whatever meager bounty he could to buy his boys microwavable burritos and a sense of pride he called justice.

Sam was in the corner by the AC reading some damn book while Dean spent most of his morning jerking off in the shower.

"God Dean," Sam rolled his eyes, pursing his lips in annoyance. "Can you play some music or something next time? I can hear your groaning."

Dean grinned sheepishly. "I'm bored."

Sam scoffed. "Join the club," he said, flipping a page. 

Dean hurtled toward the double-bed and bounced several times before settling into the overused coils of the mattress. "What do you fucking do? I can't even fucking remember. You know what I'd be doing if I'd stayed in Tennessee right now?" Sam didn't look up from his book. "I'd be jumping into a pool full of cheerleaders and listening to them squeal while my cannonball ripped off their bikinis."

Dean smiled wistfully.

"Whoop-dee-doo. Sorry to be such a lame sidetrack to your awesome life then," Sam said, stooping his shoulders so low they practically met at his chest.

"Aw come on Sammy," Dean whined, "don't be like that. You know I miss you. Besides, in two years you'll be right along with me, chasing tail and living the life."

"I don't know if Tennessee is the right place for me," he said, quietly. He glanced up at Dean, waiting for a reaction.

Dean's eyes went wide.

"No?" he asked. It hadn't occurred to him, that Sam might want to go somewhere else. It was one thing for Dean to go off track, but for Sam to leave _him?_ It didn't really compute. "Oh, I uh, I guess," he shrugged, trying to be cool about it, not really letting it settle that his brother either just didn't want to live with Dean or was avoiding Dean.

"Where are you thinking then? TU? KU? Virginia Tech or something?" Dean wrapped his arms around the pillow and settled it under his chest and stomach, letting his feet hang in the air above his rear.

Sam opened and closed his mouth, glancing again at Dean and then flipping through the pages of his book.

"Maybe the West Coast actually. I've been looking at California. They have a lot of really good public universities. And maybe if I went to a private school I could get some better scholarships, you know, from notable alumni or something." He let out a breathy laugh. "Maybe some old rich guy will take pity on my vagrant lifestyle and pay for my tuition completely."

Dean's brain went still. California was a _long_ way from Tennessee. "You never liked California when we went before." Sam ignored his book, finally staring at Dean.

Dean looked away, still wanting to avoid confrontation.

"Neither does Dad."

Now _that_ was a topic Dean wanted to avoid.

"Well," Dean shifted his gaze to the window, squinting at the bright light seeping through the blinds. "If you head to California, you know they drive out there right?" Dean grinned, looking back at Sammy. "That means you need to learn how to drive."

That got a knee-jerk reaction out of Sam. He jolted in his seat, throwing up his hands in protest but laughing all the same.

"No way Dean, Dad will _kill_ us if you let me drive the car."

"Oh so _now_ you care about what he thinks?" Dean simpered. Sam's eyebrows furrowed together, knowing that Dean was only trying to get a rise out of him, but he folded anyway.

"Oh you are so on."

 

* * *

 

Dean leaned back in his seat and smiled, closing his eyes behind his aviators. The roads were clear and the day was bright, and Sam was driving the Impala down Route 66. Could this get more epic? 

Maybe if they had a couple chicks in the back, but Dean still won't complaining since Sam's smile hadn't been that big since Dean first arrived from vacation.

"Yo, Dean," Sam woke him from his dozing. "I'm getting tailgated, what should I do?"

Dean flicked his gaze into the rearview mirror and frowned. Some dick was riding their ass. "Trying to get a better look at our sweet ride asshat?" Dean yelled, even though the driver obviously couldn't hear him. He waved his hand at Sam. "Don't worry about it, he'll pass you soon enough."

Sam nodded but his face still contorted with worry.

Dean basked in the sun and thought about Cassie. She was a journalism major who was hanging out at the bar Dean was hanging out at last night and _damn_ she had some fine legs. It'd been months since Dean had been with anyone--not since Lydia, not since Emma--and she kinda left an impression on him. There was something about her, her curiosity, her sense of adventure, her determination. Maybe she'd be there again tonight, maybe.

"Dean," Sam said after thirty seconds since Dean started his introspection. "Dean, he's still there."

"Sam I'm telling you just keep your speed and don't worry about it, the guy's a douche and he'll pass any second now."

"Wait, fuck, Dean, someone's coming on the road. Someone's merging, fuck," Sam wiggled in his seat and leaned forward, hanging on the wheel.

It shouldn't have happened. It wasn't Sam's fault. He attempted to slow down by downshifted but he was going too fast from trying to keep their tailgater at bay. He shifted down and the car stuttered, engine roaring and their speed puttered and slowed down. The car behind them slammed into their rear, careening them off the road and straight into the car headed onto the freeway,

"Sam--!"

"Dean--!"

Dean whipped his arm out to protect his brother as they collided into the Escalade in front of them. The Impala is safe, Dean remembered thinking, she's tough. She can handle this. But Sam.

He grabbed Sam's front and held him back while the force of impact slammed his head forward into the windshield.

Dean's vision went black, gaze clouding over as though he were being possessed by some demonic spirit. It smothered his breath, and then his lungs collapsed in his chest.

 

* * *

 

Dean felt a bit of pressure in his left arm. He felt like he had the worst hangover ever. His temples were throbbing and the alarm clock to his left wouldn't shut up. He tried reaching out to turn it off but he couldn't find the strength in his arms.

Fuck, how much had he drank last night?

He moaned and shifted slightly, managing to roll out a gruff "Fuuuuuu…" before his throat failed him, as if he hadn't used it in days.

"Dean, Dean oh man," Sam. It was Sam. The fuck, couldn't the kid let go of his hand and turn off the damn alarm clock? What a 12-year-old. "Dean, n-nurse! Nurse he's awake!" 

Oh shit, Dean thought. _Definitely_ drank too much last night if he had to get his stomach pumped for it. Man, Dad will be pissed. He's gonna have to hustle some extra pool sharking in order to pay these bills.

"Mr. Winchester, can you open your eyes?" Awful formal for some kid who just had his stomach emptied for alcohol poisoning, he'd thought.

"Sammy?" He croaked. "Fuck Sam, what happened? Tequila again?" 

He swore and opened his eyes slowly, blinded by the light that corrupted the soft dark behind his eyelids.

"Dean, we got into an accident," Sam said. His voice faltered, and Dean's chest constricted. He couldn't remember anything. He reached out for Sam.

"Sammy, Sammy you're--?"

"I'm fine Dean." He patted Dean's hand, and gave it a small squeeze. "I'm fine, but you--you lost a lot of blood. A concussion. Some other things. You needed blood. God, there was so much blood. Dean, fuck-- _Dean_ \--"

Dean reached out and grabbed Sam, blinding bumping his elbow and grasping onto this forearm.

"Sammy," he tried to smile. He probably looked like shit. "I'm good. Dad know?" 

Sam's eyes filled with tears and his face crumpled. His shoulders sagged and he let out an honest to God _sob_.

Dean let go of his arm, and Sam told him the news. 

 

* * *

 

Dean couldn't really remember what words Sam used. Or what he felt. He didn't really feel. His mind blocked out most of what Sam said when he'd tood him the full story for the first time, so only the most essential pieces of information remained. The details were fuzzy, and Dean did his best to erase the ones he did remember with whiskey and beer.

Dean had been comatose. His state had been declining and they needed blood for him, fast. They'd called John, who had rushed to the hospital. Sam had been under minor surgery at the time, something had embedded itself in his foot, some scrap of metal while he'd dragged Dean out of the Impala, where he'd been trapped between the seat and the front dash. Miraculously though he was mostly unharmed.

Dean's internal organs were a mess. Scrambled and squeezed and Dean was _dying_.

John offered to give some of his blood, any organs, _anything_ to save his oldest son. Both of Dean's kidneys needed to go, he needed another.  

John went calmly into one surgery room, Dean into another. 

John died in one surgery room. Dean lived in the other.

Every day Dean held onto the guilt, letting it cut him open again and again, ever since that day. Part of his father lived on in Dean, but it was wrong. John should still be alive. He wasn't the screwup, Dean was. Dean had no life worth living, and John was more to Dean than a father, he was a hero, an idol.

June 7 was the day John sacrificed himself for Dean.

How could he live up to that?

 

* * *

 

Two days supplied plenty of time to drink away Dean's memories and remember to shut down all and any emotions that might filter through Dean's subconscious into his brain. 

He dressed himself, taking his time brushing his teeth and smoothing out his hair. His hands were preparing him for confrontation and he knew the routine was important to keeping his wits about him when Cas inevitably cornered him about what happened a couple days ago.

And Dean, in all his collective confidence, was going to play it cool. 

It didn't take long for Dean to get the reaction he'd predicted. The moment he entered the familiar hallway Cas popped his head from the office and glared at him.

"Dean," Cas said his name like was about to announce the end of the world. "We need to talk."

Dean smiled a crooked smile and walked slowly to where Cas directed him inside the room..

"Dean, why did you leave last week? I don't understand what happened." Cas gave him that look again, like there was no one else around, not just in the room, but in the _world_. Dean wasn't sure he could get used to it, but the attention pulled him in like a baited hook.

"Hey I just," Dean shrugged his shoulders and peaked around Cas, making sure no one was about to walk around the corner and bust them. When he saw no immediate threat, he shut the door, and leaned back against the wall Cas had him up against. He reached out his arm to rest on Cas' left shoulder. He idly stroked the back of Cas' head but Cas held firm and didn't budge an inch. "You know. You looked really good, and I didn't want to get too, uh," he narrowed his eyes quickly and bit his lower lip while raising his eyebrows, censoring the words and allowing his facial expressions to show Cas to read between the lines. "Too _into_ it, you know? Like what if someone heard, walked in? You might get in trouble, right?"

Cas relaxed visibly. He lowered his gaze in understanding and nodded a bit, but the worry between his eyes didn't go away.

Dean smiled wide. "Seriously. There's plenty more where that came from." To prove his point he leaned in and began to lightly graze the outer shell of Cas' ear with his teeth. Cas backed up, and for a moment Dean thought maybe his charms weren't enough and he'd have to explain himself further--he fucking hated explaining himself, words, what the actual fuck did they mean that actions couldn't do a better job?--but he misjudged.

Cas took Dean's face in his hands and pulled him forward, giving him a soft kiss. Dean's motions stuttered, and he stopped breathing. It was tender, a whisper of good intentions on his lips and it almost broke his heart. He felt Cas' eyelashes brush against his cheek and he wanted so much more of that at the same time he wanted everything to stop.

Cas moved his lips around Dean's mouth, keeping a similar gentle pressure. Cas wasn't trying to make out with him, he was--

Dean wanted to cry when he realized there were no words for what Cas was telling him.

Dean grabbed Cas' waist and brought him closer. He didn't want to think about the implications of Cas' actions and instead wanted to revert back to how he'd felt about the whole situation before.

Cas was a hot fuck he was using to cope with the death of his father.

He pushed suddenly, pressing against Cas and forcing his mouth open with the goading of his lips. He bit Cas' lower lip and rolled it harshly. Cas tried to pull back a bit, continue with his quiet ministrations, but Dean ignored the tenderness.

He gripped the back of Cas' neck and pulled him forward into a bruising kiss. Dean stroked his lower lip with his tongue and coaxed it into Cas' mouth, rushing toward the upper cave inside. 

Dean could feel the tears burning behind his eyes and the lump that threatened to tear his throat apart, and he gasped quietly, licking into Cas. Thank God Cas finally began fighting back.

He pushed Dean against the wall and opened his mouth wider, running his hands over his front, up and down, before hooking into his flannel shirt between the buttons. He used his fingers to scratch at the skin of Dean's stomach and Dean moaned with purpose.

He wanted to give Cas a show. Yeah, that's what he wanted.

He grabbed Cas' ass while pulling his lips away. "Your place or mine?"

 

* * *

 

They drove together in Castiel's car on the way to his apartment. He could barely stand the tension in his stomach, and Dean wasn't helping matters by tonguing his ear at every intersection.

"Cas, drive faster," he moaned, already unbuttoning Castiel's shirt as they entered the parking lot.

"We're here," he said, and like a bullet he and Dean were out of their seats and running toward the apartment. Dean trailed behind but always kept a hand somewhere on Castiel, as though if he let go the heat that had been rising like a cumulonimbus would dissipate.

Castiel grabbed his apartment key and, with a bit of surprise at his dexterity given the situation, put it through the slot and pushed the door open, throwing the keys inside. Dean put a hand on his shoulder and pulled him around. Castiel had barely enough time to look into Dean's eyes before he was pitched back against the door frame and Dean ravished him. Dean rolled his hips under him, pushing Castiel's weight up to lean heavily against him.

He gripped Castiel tight and licked and sucked at a spot on his neck.

"Dean," he breathed, his name a plea to get them inside to do what they came to.

He was lifted again and Dean tugged him inside the apartment, throwing the door shut behind them. He tore Castiel's jacket from his shoulders and kissed him thoroughly while unbuttoning his shirt. He was wearing too many layers, he thought.

Dean dug his fingers into his hips and rolled into him just like before. Castiel could feel the blood pounding in his head as the friction between their pelvises created a static electricity on his skin.

"Dean, _yes_ ," and Dean growled in retaliation. He'd gotten the upper half of Castiel undressed and began focusing on the lower body, having ignored himself completely. Castiel stopped him and lifted Dean's shirt as an indication, fumbling the flannel material as he struggled to pull off the fabric without pinching Dean's skin. Dean took it off smoothly and Castiel noted with awe the way his muscles rippled. His mouth went dry when he caught a glimpse of the hip bone that jutted through the flesh at the top of his waistband.

Dean clasped at Castiel's belt while he looked down at him, kissing and pressing his nose into the side of his head, breathing into his hair. Castiel reciprocated, and they both undressed each other. They stepped out of their shoes, socks, pants, and Castiel realized they were still in the living room. 

Dean didn't care. He grabbed Castiel and ran his hands all the way down his back, large palms and long fingers taking the skin and pulling his body closer as they kneaded into Cas' muscles. Dean made a noise from the back of his throat as he mouthed at his collarbone. He walked him backwards to the back of the couch and dipped his hand unceremoniously into Castiel's boxer-briefs.

"Dean, the bed," his voice came straight from his lower abdomen, guttural and rough, like the hip movements Dean quickly pulsed into his groin. Not that he wouldn't have enjoyed sex wherever they had it, but they needed condoms anyway and they were in his room.

Dean yanked him forward and began walking around the couch before pausing. He didn't know where his bedroom was.

Castiel took over. He grabbed his hand, and for a second Castiel thought he felt him flinch. But when he looked back Dean was still with him, giving him a stare that gave Cas shivers down his spine. It was _feral._

He strode over to the nightstand beside his bed and took out a condom and lube from the drawer. During that short time Dean had stripped himself of his boxer-briefs and went down to kneel beside Cas. When he turned, Dean ripped down his underwear and put his mouth over his dick.

He began to lick the head and grabbed the base when Cas took the back of his head, holding him at bay.

"Dean," he panted, his vision was spinning, "Dean, we--"

"I want you in me Cas."

Castiel paused.

"Cas, I want you to fuck me." 

Castiel looked down into Dean's face, looking at the seriousness he saw there. Seriousness. There was something wrong about this, he could feel it. It was like he'd eaten a meal that hadn't settled properly. A feeling akin to a banana slug in his stomach that rolled around, its slimy belly caressing Castiel's gut.

This uncertainty, it was the same moral ambiguity he felt when he told Uriel about the funds Anna embezzled for her escape.

Dean didn't give him time to answer. He pulled them onto the bed and grabbed the condom from him, ripping the foil and taking Cas' cock in his hand, rolling the lubricated condom over his dick.

Castiel sighed, moaned a little at the sensation. He still could barely keep up with Dean, who had taken the lube and was opening himself up.

Castiel grabbed his leg and pulled it out further, giving Dean more access to himself. He leaned forward and kissed him, almost desperately. Their noses touched, rubbing almost tenderly. He moved to take Dean's cock in his hand, but Dean grabbed his wrist.

"Not yet," he smirked, and Castiel kissed him again, harder.

Dean groaned when Castiel lubed his own fingers and probed at him. He worked with Dean to open him up, Castiel's fingers gently coercing while Dean's plundered. Dean began to remove his finger and Cas looked at him. Dean nodded and winked.

The small reassurance made Castiel smile. Dean reached out to Cas' face with something akin to affection. It was a small shared moment between the two of them. Castiel knew that at least in this moment, they were thinking the same thing.

Whatever Cas felt for Dean, Dean knew. Maybe he didn't feel the same, but he knew, and he accepted it. Wanted it.

Castiel pulled himself into alignment and eased the tip of his cock into Dean. Dean arched his back and Cas leaned forward in response, unable to hold back a large sigh of breath as he went in a little deeper.

"Dean, oh, Dean," he gasped, pulling out slightly when he felt Dean's body tighten, rejecting the intrusion.

Dean shook his head. "All the way in, Cas." 

Castiel looked down and saw the seriousness again. Dean looked as if he were a soldier in a trench before No Man's Land. His expression was bereft of all traces of amusement as he gripped Cas' ass, pulling him closer.

"Dean, wai--fuck--" Cas and Dean moaned at nearly the same time as Dean forced Castiel to bottom out.

"Move," Dean commanded and Castiel knew better now than to keep him at length. He rocked his hips up and Dean rocked back, creating a tide that ebbed and flowed. He felt a sort of calm between them as they found a similar rhythm.

Dean looked strained beneath him, his forehead was creased in concentration as he leaned his head back, eyes closed and mouth open. Castiel moved back and rolled his hips forward again, angling his hips so that he could find something, anything to make Dean feel what he was feeling.

Dean let out a vocal punch of air, Cas had found it. He went faster, but steadily, thrusting into the spot that made Dean grip the sheets and feel something good along with him.

He chanted Dean's name, looking down on him, down at him, at the sweat forming at his collarbone, the stomach muscles that clenched beneath his untouched dick.

Castiel, taking care to keep his balance, reached out and held Dean's dick between his fingers lightly. Dean gave another punch of air, gasping at the contact. His eyes whipped open but he didn't remove Cas' hand again, he was so lustful his cognitive mind had shut off, effectively causing him to be completely unselfconscious now. 

Castiel pulled up and down, attempting to keep in time with his hip fluctuations. He stuttered slightly, and Dean grabbed his hand and moved it with him.

He looked straight into his eyes and Castiel saw someone else before him. Not the lackadaisical student he'd been tutoring, nor the closed-off son of a soldier who gave him a poker face when Cas prodded too deep into whatever it was Dean kept so secret.

It was something Castiel understood, but didn't have time to interpret before he was coming, filling the condom with sticky white semen as he fell from his high. He forgot about his hand on Dean, but Dean moved for the both of them, pulling himself in hard relentless jerks.

Cas looked at him and when Dean looked back, he came immediately while staring into his eyes.

 

* * *

 

Dean only rested for a few minutes before he picked himself off the bed.

Cas wanted to perk his head up and see what he was doing, but the movement was too exhausting, so he settled for flopping his head to the side and watching Dean curiously put his clothes back on.

"Dean?" he asked. His name held a hundred questions, but he hoped _What are you doing_ and  _Cut it out_ were at the top.

Dean gave him a grin--only three crows feet--and a sideways glance. "Gotta bail," he said. "Promised something, totally forgot and I really have to take care of it."

Castiel's former lethargy evaporated and he rolled himself up off the bed, leaning on his elbow. "It can't wait at all?" he asked, trying to hide his suspicion.

"Nah, sorry man, it's um," Dean grunted a bit as he struggled to get his socks on. "It's really important though."

Cas raised an eyebrow as Dean turned his back on him and began lacing up his boots.

"Right, well, let me get my things on, I'll drive you," less of an offer and more of a statement.

"No, no, don't worry about it. I should walk, get the blood running through my head again, clear me up you know? Yeah don't worry about it, you just hang here."

Cas watched as Dean threw on his shirts. So it was an "important thing" that required his immediate attention. He could afford to walk, but he couldn't wait five minutes for Castiel to make himself presentable and drive him wherever he needed to go. Apparently Dean thought Castiel was an idiot, but Castiel didn't feel particularly self-righteous enough to argue with him about it for the moment.

Cas pulled his underwear on while Dean looked about, disheveled, assuring himself he hadn't missed anything--since of course he had no plans on returning, Castiel knew.

Dean looked at him as Cas stood and gave him a quick once-over. He had the decency to smile, if half-heartedly. He came over to where Cas stood and awkwardly reached out his hand to cup at Cas elbow, though not actually touching the skin there.

"You um, you're good?" he asked, furrowing his eyebrows and looking downright serious. Cas took note of his stiff body, at how uncomfortable he looked, fully dressed next to a rucked up bed and a nearly naked Cas. Cas almost smiled at his own humiliation.

He nodded, reassuring Dean, and ran a hand through his hair, unsure if he was trying to straighten it up or mess it further. 

"Go, I'll be seeing you," he tried to smile. It felt like a grimace.

Dean smiled again, just a quick upturn of the left side of his mouth. He looked at Cas half-ready, as if he might say something, kiss him perhaps--something quick like a peck on the cheek for a grandmother, nothing meaningful--but Castiel cut the moment short.

He nodded his head to the door. "Go, good luck with your errand."

Dean nodded and walked out of the bedroom. Cas heard the front door open and shut.

Every muscle he'd kept at attention in Dean's wake fell two inches. His face, his shoulders, his knees. He walked slowly into the living room, to the kitchen, stooping like a troll. Waves of sadness and defeat rolled over his spine, caressing the space in his heart that had been so full only 10 minutes ago.

It was during times like these Cas felt like he had two pieces of one heart. One lay to the left of his chest, the other to his right. Within his chest they warred for each other, splitting veins to try and merge, become one. It was tragic to him, that a breaking heart actually felt like one trying to pull itself back together. It ripped and spiked pain, quick lightening strikes from between his ribs to pulse into his cold veins, breaking him slowly.

He opened the refrigerator. The light pooled into the dark room, highlighting his flesh.

He looked down at himself and he wondered how many more times he would make the same mistake of trusting someone. How many more times before he would become a disappointment, insignificant.

This had been why he'd left. He'd left so he could no longer be left behind. If he ran and never looked back, he didn't need to see if no one was bothering to follow him. People could use him as they saw fit and he'd never need to know why, because he was already onto the next thing.

Castiel understood there was food before him. Various assortments of geometric shapes that filled the refrigerator in front of him, fitting like puzzle pieces in neat lines and stacks. Everything had a place, everything could remain stationary. It was such a beautiful luxury, he thought. Cas sat on the floor and let the cold and light wash over him.

Maybe if he stayed still long enough he could become frozen too.

 

* * *

 

Despite all of the time Castiel spent with Uriel, the brother with whom he'd come to the Novakhome with, it was Anael who held Castiel's deepest regard, respect, and love. She was the only one who seemed to understand how to function out of the house properly. She did well in school, had outside friends, participated in extra curricular activities, and she was allowed these things because she excelled in them. None of the others were afforded such freedoms outside the home.

Castiel loved Anna, but he couldn't be around her for very long lately. She asked too many questions.

"Don't you wonder, Castiel, don't you wonder what they were like, your real parents?" she whispered under the willow by the pond. 

Castiel was 14, and summertime always meant getting ice cream and eating it by the man-made lake in the Public Garden with his siblings. Today it was just him and Anna, and these were the best days, when they sat peacefully side by side, enjoying the other's company. But she was 16, and her adolescence dropped behind her to reveal a curious and vociferous young woman. Castiel was never sure how to respond, so he shrugged, finishing off the last dregs of his popsicle.

Anna frowned. "You don't care? You have absolutely _no_ curiosity then, what they were like, what they did, why you were abandoned?"

Castiel squinted into the sunlight through Anna's red hair, leaning on the calves beneath his head where her lap cradled him.

"Maybe," Castiel reluctantly admitted. "But Anna, I wouldn't want to be anywhere without you. With Father we have a home, and a family. If you ask these questions," Castiel paused, but didn't look away from her shining blue eyes. "If they are answered, maybe that will be taken away."

"We have a home but they're just walls to keep us in. Our family, we can't trust them Castiel," Anna said bitterly.

"You can trust me," Castiel murmured. "And Father takes care of us."

"But he doesn't _love_ us."

Castiel flinched, pulling away slightly from her lap. The sun felt too hot on his legs and chest, and he felt the sensation of ants crawling over his skin. Her gaze softened and she enclosed her hands around his face, cupping his cheeks.

"But you're precious, baby brother," she said it softly, to herself. When Castiel would stare at her it would prompt her to speak aloud to him, and it was a small comfort and habit he'd acquire for when he grew older. "I love you most." She leaned down and lay a small kiss to his lips, chaste and sweet.

Anna dropped her cheek to Castiel's, and they stayed like that for some time, cheek to cheek, with Castiel's fingers combing through her hair.

 

* * *

 

Castiel was 16 when Anna went away to college. She'd had her heart set on the West Coast--Seattle maybe, San Francisco, somewhere where she could be on the water--but Father wouldn't allow her anywhere not within a day's driving distance. She'd settled on NYU, and the large city suited her. It was dirty and big, but she liked it. 

"Castiel when you come to see me I'll take you to the best places. There's a shop in Dumbo that sells the best chocolate chip cookies, the size of your face. We'll take a picture and send it to Gabriel, torture the bastard a bit," he could hear her smile wryly through the phone. "Of course Magnolia's is also a staple, but I don't want to only take you to eat here. Castiel you'll love it, when the city is too much the park is so big and wonderful, a thousand times better than the crusty old Common." 

Castiel smiled wide, excited for their potential plans. "Anna, I miss you." The house was quiet, less colorful without her presence. Raphael's cool demeanor and Uriel's quips seemed sharper without her softness to blur the clarity. "When will you come home for Thanksgiving?"

Castiel waited as silence pervaded the space between them. His stomach curled but his heart still beat on, hoping. "I've," she paused again, choosing her words. "I've actually been invited to a friend's home for Thanksgiving."

Any trace of Castiel's smile was long gone. "I'll be home for Christmas, but it's such a long bus ride, and I have so much homework to complete, it just--it just didn't seem like the right time to go back."

He wondered if it was the truth, that she'd been invited to a friend's. It wouldn't be unlikely, given that she made friends easily, and it seemed such invitations were common to students not from the area. But Boston wasn't far from New York, only a 4-hour drive, and he couldn't help but feel she'd been planning this.

For awhile now, since college applications, Anna had begin to distance herself from the family. Her relationship with her brothers seemed cold, and Castiel was her crutch to the family while Father acted as her anchor. 

Stifling her. Drowning her.

"If you'd like," her voiced perked up, chipper again. "Maybe you can come here. I'm sure Beth wouldn't mind, her family is large, she said there will be enough food to feed everyone in Brooklyn."

Castiel gave an inaudible sigh. "Thank you Anna, but I'll stay here, and visit another time. When Father allows."

It went unspoken that without Anna coming home for the holiday, the rest of the family would be confined to the home under the watchful eye of Father. Freedom was a liberty reserved for outsiders.

"Yes," she said, sullen once more. "But I will see you?"

Castiel smiled. "Of course, Anna. I love you."

"I love you, too."

 

* * *

 

Castiel thought he maybe they were pulling his leg. Uriel had asked him to go over the funds one more time, make sure everything was good to go before they submitted the numbers to Father. Anna was the one who usually managed the accounts, since she'd graduated with a double-major in accounting, but she had gone over them too quickly, Uriel thought.

Spoiled, he said. Going to the Hamptons with "friends." She could've missed something, you'll catch it if anything Castiel, you love your numbers.

Castiel looked at the numbers and, yes, she'd missed something.

Or maybe she was starting something. Castiel double checked the numbers, triple checked, before he sighed and knew either he was missing crucial information, or there was a leak in the account. Money was missing.

He waited until Anna came back from her vacation, when she was sun-kissed and smiling, before he sat her down with a copy of the reports. Her already guarded smile had faded to a grim line, watching as Castiel, with careful detachment, placed each page before her.

Castiel said nothing, hoping she would at least look over the numbers, fake some confusion, anything for him to prompt a question that would prove her innocence. She only regarded him coldly, and once he finished adjusting the pages, didn't even look down on them in curiosity.

"So?" Her voice sounded faded to him, as if it were coated in payer upon layer of coarse fabric. She'd been hiding from him for a long time and their closeness had dissipated with the years and distance she'd put between them. She went to the Hamptons with friends. He waited for Uriel to give him orders. "What do you want to hear?"

Castiel couldn't look at her. She was too vibrant; her red hair glowed in contrast to her steel blue eyes.

"I'd like to know why."

"No you don't. You know why," she accused him. "What you want to know is how? How did it end up this way? I've always been given the most freedom, but how has it not been enough Anna? How did you end up so ungrateful? How have you gotten away with it?"

She didn't fold her arms and she didn't back down. Her voice was filled with an anger and betrayal Castiel didn't understand.

"I planned to go away to Glasgow. Their School of Arts has a postgraduate program, it's not even that expensive. I just wanted enough to get away, get a Masters. I just wanted to save enough for my _freedom._ "

Castiel opened his mouth, a question on the tip of his tongue, but Anna held out her hand to stop him.

"No. You left _me_ , Castiel. I tried for years to take you with me, share you with the world, but you hid within these walls behind this false security of a _family,_ you let their lies wash over you and brainwash you and I had no _choice_ Castiel, I couldn't stay with you if it meant forgetting about my right to be free."

She raised her hands suddenly as if to wipe all the papers from the table in a dramatic climax, but she halted them, letting them fall once again into her lap. She closed her eyes then, and let a soft breath of air through pursed lips.

"Do what you will." She stood and didn't look at Castiel. She walked from the room and Castiel felt as much attachment to her as he would to a character in a movie.

Castiel let Uriel know about the numbers. Uriel had been far less surprised than Castiel had been, he'd laughed even, over the phone. Spoiled, he'd said again, before disconnecting the line.

Anna lost everything. She was confined to the home and given menial company tasks. Her cards and bank accounts were taken from her and though they lived in the same home, Castiel never saw her again even once during the year before he moved to Tennessee.

For the price of Anna's wings, Castiel had been given freedom, and though it was ironic and heartbreaking, Castiel sometimes felt it was worth it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter! Thanks for reading. :)


	4. Evergreen

Dean wasn't freaking out. He definitely wasn't. He was totally sure he left the stove on or something, that's why he left. Besides, it was just a fuck, a not-so-quick one, with a guy he was seriously starting to--

 _No._ Cas was just a friend. Barely that at this point, I mean, he still didn't know much about the guy. Just that his room was immaculately clean for someone who spent so much of their time working, but who had a sweet tooth and threw candy wrappers on bookshelves. Or the one, anyway.

 _No._ Stop it, Dean, it's not like you were curious or snooping. He'd laid there for awhile okay? I mean, he'd jumped up the second he could to leave, but he'd needed two minutes of rest and if things happened to be in his line of sight, then fuck, he had eyes okay? He wasn't curious. Well, only as curious as a normal person was, not like, he was giving Cas special curiosity, or something.

Fuck. _Fuck._

Dean wasn't sure what to do. What he wanted to do was turn the fuck around and run back into that apartment, go for round two, or round three. He wanted to go back and lay in Cas' bed for the rest of the night. Talk or not talk. Have a warm body next to him.

The reason he _didn't_ go back is because he knew he didn't just want those things, he wanted the specifics of those things. He wanted to talk to _Cas_ for the rest of the night, he wanted _Cas_ lying next to him, calling him out with those blue eyes. He wanted Cas to get inside him, not just physically, although yeah, that sounded pretty good, but--

 _Fuck_. He was so not thinking about this. He was not about to indulge in his, Jesus Christ, his _feelings_.

Dean panicked and his body seemed to tremble with the idea of bringing someone new into his life, someone he could trust with the idea he’d practically murdered his own father.

Dean walked down the street, starting along the four-mile long journey that would bring him back to it all. The Impala. His deceit. His hell.

Dean gripped his keys tight enough to imprint his palm. He grit his teeth and cringed at his own foolishness. He’d actually fucked Cas. He’d taken advantage and now, Dean would just have to suffer for his selfishness, like he always did.

Dean almost basked in the pain, relieved in the familiarity of depressed repose. The idea that he was a screw up was nothing new to Dean, it was a thought that circled around and around in his mind from the first time he’d been admonished by his father for forgetting to lock the hotel door properly after he’d left.

It almost felt like a kind of high, and it reassured him of his place in the world.

He hadn’t been worthy of his father’s love, and this was why. Because he was the kind of person who needed too much, demanded too much, and left nothing but disaster and destruction in his wake.

Dean was a tornado. Natural but terrible. Awful and tragic.

Dean hunched forward and walked down the path, driven and determined to take himself back to where he’d been.

He had no future behind him, so he walked forward, and forward, until Cas’ face became a Pavlovian response when he thought about the word ‘mistake.’

 

* * *

 

“Sure everything’s okay Champ? You’ve never called me up drunk before,” the humored voice drawled on the line, and Cas threw another pea at the wall. It was starting to stain the wallpaper a sickly kind of green.

“I don’t believe I’ve called you up ever,” Cas replied, and threw another pea. “Fact.”

A snicker came out the other line. “Man you must be so messed up then. So who was he? Older professor? Oh Cas, you _devil_ , you.”

“Student, actually.”

“Oh, Cas-ti- _el!_ ” his brother admonished playfully. “How awful of you to take advantage of a poor little student over there.” Cas could hear Gabriel moving around, no doubt rolling over on his bed, cackling into the sheets before continuing to tease Castiel. “Please tell me the homewrecker is cute then. He must have one sweet ass if a mannequin like you is actually taking notice.”

“He does, as matter of fact, have a sweet ass,” Castiel answered, droll and humorless. “Tastes like peaches.”

Gabriel whooped and hollered, and Cas was able to pelt the wall with several more peas before Gabriel was able to speak through his gasping laughter.

“Oh Cas,” he sighed happily, “please never fail to call me again every time you get your heart broken and get drunk.”

Cas rolled his eyes, and listened as Gabriel hummed thoughtfully on the other line.

“But it’s honestly a bit sad you have no one else you can get drunk _with_. They seriously don’t have gay bars over there? I mean it’s a college, maybe there’s some underground speak-easy you’re missing out on.”

Now Castiel scoffed. “In Tennessee?”

“Hm, you make a good point.”

“I always make good points,” Castiel said.

“Yeah,” Gabriel said, and Cas waited for the shoe to drop. “Some very good points you made about how Anna was a monster for grabbing what she deserved so she could relieve herself of our cultish little family. Very good points.”

Cas dropped the pea he was holding and took another swig of alcohol. Honestly he didn’t even know what he was drinking. He looked at the bottle. Bacardi.

It tasted terribly.

“Have you spoken to her?” Castiel asked.

“Not spoken, per se,” Gabriel said, voice lacking its customary humor. “But I’ve seen her, listlessly wasting away at the office from time to time.”

“What are they having her do now?”

“Beats me, probably cleaning for all I know.”

Castiel rested his hand in the bowl of peas. He couldn’t bring up the energy it took to hurl them away.

Funny, since he seemed to have a talent for throwing people he held dear as far as they would land from him.

“Castiel, brother-mine,” Gabriel cooed on the other line. “It was your fault. We know that. It was you that got her locked up. It was you that found the mistake that would have put her behind bars but instead landed her in her own personal hell.”

Castiel’s throat locked up and he couldn’t have responded if he’d even deigned to.

“But Castiel, _Jimmy_ , we all make mistakes.” Cas bit his lip to keep it from trembling, and Gabriel paused before continuing. Castiel wondered briefly if it was to relish just a bit in hearing Castiel choke up on the other line. As good-humored as Gabriel was, he had always been a bit of a sadist.

“But leaving them to _rot_ by themselves isn’t usually how you fix them.”

Castiel hung up the phone without another word and dropped it to the ground.

He thought about green eyes, and he wasn’t sure if they belonged to Anna, or to Dean.

 

* * *

 

 

Dean steadied himself against the railing, waiting to see if Cas would show up.

Dean thought about not coming at all, but his grades were weirdly important to him now, and he wasn’t about to let Bobby take away his chance of working at the yard, not yet. He’d put too much blood into this, too much effort and he wasn’t going to stop now, not on his end.

Dean’s stomach twisted when he saw a flash of tailored pants and tan Oxfords make their way toward him. His mouth thinned while he straightened his spine, and it felt like a year before Castiel made it to him, gesturing with barely a hand twitch to get Dean to follow.

He wondered if he was _sick_ , since when he saw Cas, his heart had perked up a bit. Castiel’s forehead appeared wrinkled and his face stuck in a grimace.

Was it a sick thing to think that he was relieved that Castiel knew what he’d done to him? That he felt a kind of allayment that Cas had been affected by him?

Yes, he thought viciously as Cas led him to their usual spot, and Dean remembered the way Cas’ sharp hip bones had felt between his fingers when they’d fucked. Yes, it definitely was.

It was entirely cloudy outside, and though they were now inside the office, Cas had yet to take off his Ray Bans.

"Uh," Dean began intelligently. "What's with the shades Johnny Valentine?"

"Had an eventful weekend." Cas opened one of the books roughly, slathering his hands all over the pages and flipping them without his usual delicacy.

"Oh yeah? Where'd you go?" Dean attempted light conversation. He could feel Cas glaring at him from behind the darkened lenses.

"On a bender," he said grouchily. Dean paused. Did he just hear that right?

Cas continued to slap at the pages, eventually finding what he was looking for and sighing heavily.

“Shall we begin? I think we both want this over with.”

Dean’s heart sank a bit and he lowered himself into his seat a bit more. He leaned back, trying for a casual and unaffected attitude.

“Sure boss,” he drawled.

“Great. Get our your notes.”

Dean slowly got out his papers and Cas snatched them from his hands, looking them over. Dean watched his face closely, but he could see nothing behind the annoyed mask Cas pasted to his face.

Dean had to wonder if it was really his doing then. Cas looked like someone had shit in his car, not used his body like a kleenex tissue before bailing. There was no sadness to Cas, only a firm kind of anger, and if Dean was right, it was the self-inflicted kind.

And boy did he know about self-inflicted righteous fury.

“These are awful,” Cas muttered, shuffling through them. “You’re getting miniscule details without understanding the concepts. You should listen more in class.”

Dean bit back his snarky reply and swallowed thickly. Cas had a right to be angry, he knew that.

Didn’t mean he had to like the way he was being spit at though.

“Let’s go back to your German. Get out your most recent paper and let’s see if you’ve managed to improve fractionally.”

“Gee, thanks for the confidence, Cas,” Dean said, unable to hold back a bit of sass.

“Don’t. Call. Me. That.”

Cas’ tone held such an icy note that Dean froze, hardly believing that breezy cool Cas could even use that kind of tone.

“Never seemed to mind before.”

“Now I do. So...shove it.”

The insult fell a bit short, and Dean could tell Cas wasn’t used to this, to being angry and unleashing it on anyone, even if it happened to be someone who deserved it.

Dean pitied him then. Pitied the man who’d longed for him, to see him fall like this, become a petty and brittle thing ready to throw a fist for hurt pride.

Dean solemnly packed his things and stood up from the chair.

“Thanks Castiel,” he said in a low voice. He wasn’t unable to hide the darkness from his voice, and he noticed Cas’ brow furrow just a bit deeper, impacted yet again by Dean. “But I think we should probably leave things as they are. Let it lie, yeah?”

Cas said nothing, only stared at the place where Dean’s papers had once been, edges crumpled between his fingers.

Dean lifted the bag over his head and rested it on his shoulder. He turned the metal knob on the door, noticing the scratches in the fake gold, turning the edges into an ugly and tarnished looking silver.

He opened the door and strode out. He didn’t look behind him. He didn’t see how Castiel didn’t move, not one muscle, at his departure.

As he walked back to the Impala, Dean kept his eyes forward, forward, and walked briskly away, like neither of their hearts had been broken.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Castiel dropped his books on the table harder than necessary. He was still reeling from the hangover from Hell and his appointment with Dean had been a complete disaster. He'd hoped the solitude of the library could help him work on his thesis, since sitting around in his apartment depressed him more than a negative outlier.

The sound disturbed his tablemate but Cas didn't bother looking up or apologizing. He just wasn't in the mood.

He couldn't help but feel intensely irritated at Dean. Dean, who'd left him, not once, but _twice_ after they'd had sex, had the gall to act like it was _Cas_ who was acting obnoxious about the whole thing. It was a mess, a fucking mess and Castiel should've known better than to get involved with a student.

It wasn't entirely unethical, since Castiel had no influence over Dean's grades and he was actually a student as well. He was doing this whole tutoring thing just to get in the good graces of the higher ups; it technically wasn't in his job description to help pull kids' grades up. The road to hell is paved with good intentions, eh? Cas thought wryly, crumpling his hair in his hand as he scribbled notes on top of notes.

"Um, you wanna talk about it?"

Castiel looked up to see a young man staring at him awkwardly. He was the tablemate, sitting across from him at a diagonal. He looked a bit young to be in college, but all freshmen looked fresh-faced to Cas, so he didn't really question it.

"No, thank you," Cas said firmly, hoping to end the conversation.

"You just, you seem tense," the young man fiddled with his pen and didn't look away. "Sometimes it helps to tell a stranger you know? Principles of therapy." He tapped the pen on his book and for a moment, neither of them blinked. "Maybe if you talked it out you can get a fresh angle, see something you didn't before. That way you can get some work done?"

Castiel looked down at his papers and noticed he'd been staring at the same page and writing most of the same note over again. He looked at the clock. He'd already been here a half hour. Castiel cursed into his palm, sliding it down his face.

The young man coughed into his hand and shrugged. "Sorry, I don't mean to pry. It's totally your business. I've just seen that face before and I know it usually comes before or after a bottle of whiskey."

Cas had to give the young man props for astuteness.

"You've really pegged me down, haven't you?" Castiel said it entirely more sarcastically than he'd intended.

He shrugged again, suddenly bashful. "My brother says I think too much. He also says I talk more than I think, so I guess that gives you a good indication about my tact."

Castiel felt badly for his sharpness. "Well depending on your brother's perception of thought-processing levels, for all I'm aware you think more than an acorn and talk more than a tree. A determined variable is everything, you should point that out to him next time," he offered him, trying to run off his guilt.

The young man at the table scoffed amiably, his mouth first expanding into a large grin and then letting it fall to a small comfortable smile. "Yeah, I uh, I guess you're right."

He held out his hand, which was large, but thin. "I'm Sam."

Castiel looked into his eyes and saw a young honesty there. Youth, this is what he saw, and it was precious before him. It was an offer of friendship without anticipating consequence or preemptive thought. He was sincere in his kindness.

"Castiel," Cas reached out his own hand and shook Sam's, meeting his smile.

"So," Sam shrugged. "What's on your mind?"

Castiel shook his head. "It's a bit complicated. I don't want to frighten you away from any college experiences due to my horror stories."

Sam waved a hand in dismissal. "Doubtful, since I don't go here. I'm just visiting. That brother I told you about, he goes here. I'm waiting to surprise him and figured I'd get some homework done on campus." Sam smiled. "Which leaves you with no excuses, so," he gestured with both hands, spreading them out and open before him. "Spill it."

Cas opened his mouth to speak. He actually had the intention to tell this boy everything. Gory homosexual sex and all (well, maybe not the _details_ ) when something struck him.

Something about Sam seemed oddly familiar. The shrugs, the speech, the openness. He couldn't put his finger on it, but he paused, thinking to himself, just maybe. His brother, presumably older, was a student on campus. What if Castiel knew him? What if he was in one of his classes? He couldn't go on telling Sam everything only to have him relay it to his brother. The story could get around, it could be bad news for himself and for Dean. He didn't think they'd get into actual trouble, but he was walking on thin ice since it was his first semester and his contract wasn't settled for the next year. He could get the boot if something like this got out.

It led Cas to ask another question. "Sam, tell me, you said you're meeting your brother. Would you mind telling me who he is?"

Sam blinked, caught off guard by the question, but answering it nonetheless. "Oh, uh, my brother's name is Dean. Dean Winchester, he's a third baseman for the team, construction major."

Cas could feel the color drain from his face.

"You know him?" Sam asked, eyebrows furrowed in concern.

Jesus _Fuck_ , as Gabriel might have put it.

"Yeah you definitely know him," Sam muttered quietly, mostly to himself. Castiel reeled back from the conversation. He felt clammy and his palms broke out into a sweat. He wondered if Sam could see the absolute terror he felt. "So I'm gonna _guess_ your problem is conveniently tied to my brother. Wow, that's like," he scrunched up his face in disbelief. "Supernatural."

Sam ran a hand through his hair and shook it out, all while Castiel continued to gape.

"All right, all right what did he do? Is he making fun of you? Is he hitting on you or something? Bothering you?" Sam asked, remarkably suspicious of his own family and ready to defend Castiel more than his own kin. He wondered what that meant, in between concentrating on breathing normally.

Castiel managed to clear his throat. "No," he said roughly. "He hasn't abused me in such a manner."

"But your problem, it's with him?"

"Remarkably, yes." Castiel looked at Sam. For a moment Castiel almost Believed, as nothing else could fabricate such a coincidence to his mind, but he shook the notion away. Named for an angel though he was, he'd never cared for religious speculation. "Rather, we seemed to be friendly," Castiel took a second to appreciate just how much of an understatement the word he'd used really was, "and now Dean seems to have…"

Castiel trailed off, unsure exactly of what Dean was actually doing.

"He stopped talking to you? Ran away? Pussied out?"

"You might call it that," Cas gave a hint of a nod.

"And let me guess, you're the only person who's actually been hanging around him since this semester," Sam threw down his pen in frustration and ran both hands through his hair.

"I'm mostly unaware of what Dean's social interactions are outside of this institution, although most of the stories he has beguiled me with have been from previous semesters."

"Yeah, figures." Sam shook his head and leaned his hand on his knuckles. "So he never told you about…” he paused, and his throat clicked as he swallowed. Cas tried not to look too closely at the young man’s eyes. HIs obvious discomfort was indicator enough of tragedy. “--This summer I guess?" Sam looked at Cas through squinted eyes. "How close are you two?"

Considering he'd had Dean's mouth on his dick, he'd venture to say, "Close enough," Cas said. Then he added, "He told me about Lydia."

"Wow. Close. And still nothing about Dad, _real_ logical there Dean," Sam rolled his eyes. "All right, well I know my brother and I know he'll never have the balls to come out and tell you what happened. He's gonna want you to do all the work and get it out of him, and then he'll get all mopey and wonder why you don't care when you get fed up with his weird avoidance issues when he refuses to talk about it."

Castiel’s lip quirked into a smile briefly, marveling at the accuracy.

"So," Sam said. "I'll tell you." He dropped his pen and closed his book, holding one hand over his other, which balled up in a fist before him.

His face was now hidden by his long hair and his expression closed off for a moment before becoming unbearably open. Sorrow swept over his features and Cas’ heart tightened, already anticipating the horror that must have occurred to create such a violent anguish in Sam.

He was just a boy he’d known for a few minutes, but he was genuine, Castiel felt.

Sam looked back into Castiel’s eyes with set determination. Castiel held his breath.

"It was my fault," he began.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dean placed the rack of newly clean glasses less than gently onto the bar. He’d had a hell of a week and his mood demanded a bit of violence with every move he made.

The crowd was slow, Thursday nights usually were, so Dean had too much time to think to himself. Thinking was the worst, he thought, totally overrated. Everything he did questioned and poked and prodded by his conscience.

Castiel being the first and foremost.

But no, he’d decided, he pointedly wasn’t going to think about him. There was nothing to fix because there’d been nothing there to begin with. Castiel had been a placeholder for his grief, a temporary high, like the fourth shot of tequila. But now Dean was moving on to the next drink and Castiel had had his turn.

No, Dean thought assuredly, Castiel had no part in Dean’s journey.

And yet when the door opened cautiously, the shadow of it shading the wall a shade of blue Dean felt all too familiar with, it seemed all too expected that Castiel Novak should be standing in the way of it.

Dean’s stomach sank and he immediately turned around, pretending he hadn’t noticed, willing his mind to stop playing jokes on him, for the fucking world to give him a break just _once_.

Castiel was his failure, his epic mistake. Confronted by it so quickly was clearly an act of God, who now had become a holy pain in Dean’s ass.

And though the shadow disappeared, the figure stood still in the doorway.

Slowly, carefully, Castiel made his way to the bar. Dean could feel the keen gaze on him as he drew nearer, and Dean counted to ten in German to try and settle his mind, to reach for any kind of anchor that would draw his anxiousness to the deep calm of the ocean floor.

Castiel took a seat at the bar, hands flat against the wood. He waited.

Dean looked him over as he braced both hands against the bar, lowering his chest to settle back and put his rear at a focal point for anyone walking behind him. Unconsciously he grazed his tongue against the inside of his cheek.

Cas-- _Castiel_ \--seemed way out of place in this bar. The guy still had on his slacks for Christ's sakes. His preppy New England fashion sense stuck out like a sore thumb in the blue-collar bar. His tie was loose and messy, falling slightly to the left of his chest and his sleeves were rolled up. He looked painfully as though he were trying to relax in a place that was clearly not his scene. _Scene_. As if he'd even use a word like that.

Dean scoffed and looked at him with half-lidded eyes. "Anything I can get for you, sir?" He raised his posture then, still looking at him through the hazy suspicion of his gaze.

Castiel's glance flickered from Dean's hands to his face. "Narragansett?"

"Don't sell those here."

"Then I'd suspect you wouldn't sell Ballentine?"

Dean dropped his half smile and looked at him with his best poker face. He didn't expect Cas' taste to run so…

Working class.

He grunted. "We actually do."

"I'll take it then, please."

"Hmm," Dean dropped his cloth behind the counter and turned around to the small fridge to his left. Chancing a peek at the mirror he saw Castiel was still fixing an intense look at his back.

So this is what they were doing then. This Dean could do. Hidden--not fucking _feelings_ because those didn't exist in his world--intentions, controlling body language. It was a game of control, a game Dean knew well.

It was so much more effective than simply asking questions. Words, what the fuck did they even mean? Actions, games, strategy--John Winchester had taught Dean to be a soldier, to think like one, to hold himself upright and to look at another man straight in the eye and to just fucking _know_ a man's character by reading his body.

And here Cas was. Dressed down, stiff as a board and drinking a lesser man's beer.

What Dean couldn't figure out now were his intentions.

Dean pulled the tall can out from the fridge and dropped it on the bar with a dull thud. He grabbed an ice cold glass and slid the two in front of Cas. He paused before letting them go, giving Cas a raised eyebrow before he leaned up and picked up a small towel.

He resumed the business of cleaning the bar glasses, wiping them with his cloth to ensure all the water from the dishwasher didn’t leave any dried marks on them. His audience wasn’t exactly the type to hold them up in the dim light to check if they were indeed perfectly clean, but Dean needed something to do to distract himself from the way Cas was so definitively not looking at him.

His once-confident, once-lover, once-friend, stared at down at the bar with a puzzled look on his handsome face. Dean could admit that now, having had sex more than once with the guy. His face was perfectly round but the sharpness of his eyes and chin gave it a chiseled masculinity. His hands were broad, strong-looking, and Dean took the chance to let his eyes linger on those full lips.

Memories of their closeness surged forward and Dean cleared his throat once, throwing himself back into his menial tasks.

A few minutes went by where Dean listened closely to the sounds around him. The game in the background: the soft music of the jukebox playing Smokey Robinson, the course rumbling of laughter from the men around him having a good time.

But Cas still sat at the bar, lips pursing together as though he were looking at a particularly challenging equation.

Dean looked into the mirror behind the bottles of the bar and came into direct eye contact with Cas. His tongue caught in his throat, feeling twice as large and clumsy and Dean could see his face flush in the mirror.

His stomach dropped and he cursed himself for feeling so caught off guard.

He turned around to face Cas while keeping his face downward, refusing to look at him, and shamefully trying to dispel his awkwardness. His guilt had manifested itself into a simmering anger, defending his pride even though he was the one who’d damaged Cas.

Ever in denial was Dean Marion Winchester.

“You gave away the game a long while ago, Dean,” Cas said, staring at him with neither accusation nor mercy.

Dean stared back, perplexed and suspicious, an odd combination that somehow almost made him look endearing.

Adorable, that was the word Cas aimed for.

“How...do you mean?” Dean asked, narrowing his eyes and noticeably not straightening his posture, like he was waiting for the strike Cas wound up for.

“You’ve told me about your secrets,” Cas said, tilting his head and narrowing his own eyes in response. “I don’t understand why you would think another would damage our bond.”

“Bond?” Dean said with obvious contempt and sarcasm.

Castiel could feel him shutting down, though he only calmly licked his own lips and took a small sip of his beer. He had every confidence that by the end of this conversation, closure would be achieved.

For both of them.

“I do believe for two people to have the conversations and interactions we’ve had, it infers the two involved must have a bond of sorts.” Cas thoughtfully spun the glass in his hands counterclockwise. “Not fatefully perhaps, or even spiritually, but mentally, cognitively.”

Dean’s own expression grew thoughtful, more open.

“Affectionately,” Cas finished.

Dean opened his mouth and then closed it again. He closed his eyes and his lips flattened out. He breathed out through his nose suddenly, as if a realization had occurred he’d not wanted to believe.

Cas continued to spin the glass between his palms, waiting.

“You’ve been emotionally despondent, and I’m here to rectify our relationship, though the cause is out of my hands.” Cas dropped his head to the side again, widening his eyes in sincerity and Dean laughed spitefully.

“Rectify our relationship?” he scoffed meanly. “Cas, hate to break it to you buddy, but we never _had_ a relationship.” His heart felt cold and he resumed polishing a glass, not bothering to look at Cas as he tried to break his heart. “You’re a sweet piece of ass, I’ll give you that, but I’m not exactly looking for love at the moment.”

“Those who don’t look for love often find it unexpectedly, I’m told,” Cas said, completely unaffected by Dean’s cruelty. “And I believe from my own experiences with you that you are, in fact, seeking attention and friendship from a comforting source. I believe you care about me, and you are purposefully shunning me in order to excuse yourself for when you feel you will inevitably ‘scare me off,’” Cas used the air quotes again but Dean was in no humor to laugh at Cas’ personality quirks he’d once enjoyed.

"Well look at all the shits I don't give Cas," Dean threw his hands up into the air, angry and resentful.

"I'm not sure if the space between your palms indicates a multitude or lack thereof, but either way I'm not talking about the amount of shits you do or do not give, or to whom, I'm here to say that I didn't know about your father." Cas didn't even do him the courtesy of looking at his beer, but instead bore straight into his soul with those fucking blue eyes. "And I'm sorry," he said.

He even sounded like he fucking meant it.

Dean wanted to be angry, he wanted to be furious that Cas had somehow snooped into his past and found out about the worst thing that had happened to him--and Dean had been through some pretty terrible shit in his twenty years of life--and shoved it in his face via _apology_.

But Dean was too shocked, felt too raw at having his father brought up to muster up any anger for Cas, who looked at him with large eyes through dark lashes, with a sympathy Dean had been searching for but also running from.

And damn was he tired.

His shoulders fell and he scrunched up his face, trying to will up the anger. Nothing. He sighed and threw the rag on the counter, folding his arms across his chest.

“Well,” he said, then let it trail off. He had nothing to add to that.

“It came as a shock to me,” Cas said quietly, lips moving almost in slow motion as his mouth curved around his carefully chosen words. “And as much as I don’t want to intrude, or make this an egocentric argument, I would like to impress upon you my sincerest con…” Cas stopped his word almost before Dean could glare at him. “Condolences” was probably the word Dean hated most since the death of his father.

“My sincerest wish for your peace of heart. And mind,” he finished.

Dean continued to ignore Cas. He stared instead at the sweating glass Cas held between his fingers. A teardrop of liquid fell from the top of the glass to Cas’ nearest finger.

“Dean, whatever the case may be,” Cas said, so kindly it make Dean’s heart ache, “I enjoy your company. I always have, and I truly would like to continue it, in whatever circumstance as befits your emotional state.”

Dean looked up and bit the inside of his cheek. The light from behind Cas highlighted his figure. In the bar, everything in the background seemed to fade away except for Cas. His blue tie, his white shirt, his Burberry trench coat glowed in the fluorescents, and Dean saw the crown of his head appear like a halo.

Dean cleared his throat, again. “So basically, you’re here for me.”

Cas looked away from Dean, losing himself in thought at the comment for a moment, before shaking his head in confirmation.

“Yes, that is accurate.”

“Cas?”

“Yes, Dean?”

“You’re a sap.”

Castiel smiled. “You know, you’re the first to say that.”

Dean scoffed, “What does that make me then?”

“Emotionally constipated.”

Dean barked out a laugh and threw back his head to gaze at the ceiling. Wherever Cas had come from, he sure as hell had landed smack dab in the middle of his life now.

"So Cas--I’m sorry, _Castiel_ ," Dean corrected himself.

"You can continue to call me 'Cas,' I overreacted and the nickname has never bothered me." Cas looked at the back wall and grumbled his syllables together, but they were still meant for Dean to hear.

"Oh so you admit to being a douchewad about that?" Dean glared but he didn't have the heart to make it actually threatening.

"Well you still have yet to apologize for being a complete… _assbutt,_ and leaving me both times we copulated."

Dean paused, annoyed at the word “copulate” but more amused at the insult. Clearly, they needed to work on his smack talk.

"Assbutt?" he repeated, grinning a little.

Cas nodded once and took a drink from his beer.

Dean leaned in closer to him, feeling the electric pull of comfort. It was easy to take Cas up on his offer. Dean couldn’t put his finger on it, but accepting Cas into his circle just seemed like the natural thing to do.

But he did have one question.

“Cas, how did you find out?” Dean asked, suddenly somber. “Who told you about my dad?”

Cas paused, staring at him, gaging him.

“It’s...not my place to say.”

Dean felt a bit of irritation surface. So Cas was allowed to know about his father’s passing, but Dean wasn’t privy to how he’d gotten the information? Bullshit.

Anticipating his reaction, Cas raised his hands in defense and moved back a little. “I mean to say, it’s related to a surprise.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Surprise?” he repeated.

“Yes. You...have a visitor. It’s,” Cas’ voice slid off, unsure of how to put the situation. “A bit unbelievable.”

Dean frowned. “Try me.”

Cas looked off to the side pointedly and Dean straightened, thinking Ellen was probably standing behind him ready to smack him with the cheapest vodka they had (in case it broke, it would never be a valuable liquor).

But Dean’s face beamed sunshine when he turned to find his little brother, taller than him now, _shit,_ right behind him with a grin of his own.

“Sam!” Dean shouted and took the few steps to bring him to his brother. He clapped him on the back, then ruffled his head, and Sam laughed and pushed at him bashfully.

“Hey Dean,” Sam replied, cheeks rosy from excitement and embarrassment, and Dean couldn’t fight the unrelenting happiness he felt seeing his brother.

Dean smacked the back of his head without warning and sam cried out, more from surprise than actual pain.

“You and I have a lot to talk about,” Dean warned with a finger to his brother’s face. Sam blinked back doe-like, eyes wide and attempting innocence, which Dean was having none of.

He loved his brother, but it didn’t lessen the pain of his true feelings on the matter. If it’d been up to Dean Cas never would’ve known, true, they never would’ve settled their accord. But Dean wasn’t about to allow his brother to think for a moment it was his decision to make.

Dean wasn’t the best at making life choices, but it was his life to lead, and the pain he felt from his father’s death, from Dean having been the sole cause, did not mean he wasn’t allowed to make them.

“And that’s my cue to leave,” Castiel murmured, loud enough for them both to hear intentionally.

Dean looked back to see Cas already standing, one hand in his pocket with another holding down a ten dollar bill to the bar. “No change needed,” he said smiling, and set himself to leave.

“Hold up, Cas,” Dean called. “I’ll walk you out.”

Cas smiled and stayed where he was, allowing Dean to give Sam a business look, a ‘this is not over’ stern glance, before Dean strode over to him and lead to the way to the door.

He took Cas by the arm when they were outside, took a moment to cast his gaze over him again, this time giving him more than just a heated once-over.

When he looked at Cas, he did see more than the clothes, the disconcerting stare, the full lips. He saw someone who’d stuck out his neck for him from the beginning, without even knowing him. It’d been enough for Cas to want to help when he’d been told about a kid with crummy grades who needed a kick in the pants. Cas helped him jump his motor without being wary of the dangers that might’ve affected him.

It took guts, Dean thought, to jump in like that. Dean could respect that.

And it was because of that respect Dean stopped himself from kissing Cas, just a few inches from his face. He waited for Cas to close the gap, to slide his lips to Dean willingly.

Dean didn’t want to just take from Cas anymore. He wanted to offer him something, and right now, all Dean could offer him was the promise of redemption.

And soon the kiss went from accepting to heated. Cas held nothing back, telling Dean with his lips how he’d forgiven Dean of his trespasses, and Dean sighed into Cas’ mouth, relieved and rejoicing in one breath.

He let go of his inhibitions, his botched attempt to push Cas away, and pressed him into the wall, grinning and finally enjoying the feeling of Cas in his arms.

And now...okay, now maybe they were definitely making out in the neon lights outside the bar.

There was something so ridiculously hot about Cas, that he was so prim in certain ways--Dean never forgot the floral jean cuffs he wore to the diner that one day--but so rough in other ways. In some freaky way he was the Catholic school girl, all polite and perfect on the outside but who painted her toenails red, just for him. _Well that was a fucking weird analogy,_ he thought to himself as Cas stuck his tongue in his mouth and Dean opened his lips to suck on it.

Dean grabbed Cas' ass and pulled him closer, letting him grind into his upper thigh a bit as Dean leaned back against the wall of the building. He carded his fingers through Cas' hair and Cas released a sigh of breath into his cheek. Cas' hands caressed up and down Dean's sides, fondling his waist and pressing his thumbs into the juncture of his hips.

Cas expertly licked the upper cavity of Dean's mouth and Dean groaned around Cas' tongue. Cas smiled and slid away. Dean furrowed his eyebrows, confused at the loss of heat cornering his body. Cas looked at him expectantly.

"Wha...?" Dean began.

Cas smirked. "I was just wondering if you wanted to run off now. Tuck your tail between your legs and flee the gay student-teacher pinning you to a wall."

Dean rolled his eyes and shoved Cas' face away.

"No, I'm serious," Cas chuckled, obviously anything but. "If the intimacy between us is too much you can go hide in the backseat of your car. I'll wait."

"I can't believe you just fucking said 'intimacy'," Dean grimaced, pulling away from the wall and placing his hand around Cas' lower back.

"What term would you prefer then?"

"I don't know. 'Manly groping'."

Cas swallowed his laugh but couldn't hide his smile. He looked pleased, Dean thought. And he couldn't help but feel a bit of pride knowing that it was because of him.

Then Cas squeezed his grip on Dean’s forearm, and the two turned serious for a moment.

“Talk to me,” Cas commanded in his quiet way. “Someday.” Cas looked at him unblinkingly and Dean had not even the slightest desire to hide from his glaze. “Mistakes are meant to be fixed.”

Dean nodded, understanding without knowing. His eyes fluttered closed as Cas quickly pressed his lips to the side of Dean’s crooked nose, and then fell out of his arms as he stepped away.

Dean put his hands in his pockets and watched Cas take out his car keys and enter his tiny, over-priced foreign car.

The lights flickered behind him as Cas drove away. Dean sighed into the night air, feeling a chill go down his spine from the cold air.

Funny thing was, he didn’t feel cold.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Days later found Castiel sitting on his living room floor with his phone in his tumbler, again. He listened to Smokey Robinson croon and cry, lamenting a lost love, but the smile never drifted far from his own face.

He spooned the macaroni and cheese into his mouth and grunted when some dropped on a student’s paper. Cas quickly grabbed the offending pasta and put it into his mouth, licking his fingers. He rubbed at the sauce on the page, but it was hopeless.

The orange color had smeared across the page, a token of a good meal bestowed upon a thoughtful answer.

In his mind Dean laughed, and smeared the color farther across the page. Cas rolled his eyes physically when he imagined the scuffle, of Dean threatening to empty the bowl across another heap of papers Cas was attempting to shorten through working.

Dean of course, would be having none of that.

Castiel didn't know what would come between the two of them. Dean was a mess, but he made Cas think twice, made him feel something he knew he'd missed his whole life. Dean carried a loyalty and a kind of humanity Castiel had never experienced before. It liberated him. He didn't know if it would affect him positively, but he wanted to change because of it. It was a freedom, this newfound compassion, and Cas wanted to see where it took him.

Cas finished the bowl of macaroni and wrote over the offending orange stain, hoping it would be less noticeable under the blue ink comment. It wasn’t.

He smiled and shrugged, and moved onto the next problem.

Wherever he ended up with Dean, he hoped he got there in Dean's Impala.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dean finished up counting the cash in the register and left the detailed accounting, along with his tip receipt, on the corner of Ellen’s desk.

He kissed Jo on the cheek before leaving, and she swiped at him, even as she leaned into the kiss. Dean winked at her and skipped out of the bar and into the bright sunshine.

He had half a day left, having taken the early morning to afternoon shift for once. He normally hated those shifts, since it left him with nothing to do for the rest of the night. Normally he’d just found another bar to crash in, or go home and drink himself dumb, but this time around he had plans. Or rather, an idea.

In his mind’s eye he was driving the Impala, his grip on the steering wheel was light, and he looked to his right to see Cas. His hair was blowing in the wind and he had that soft smile on his face, most likely an answer to an equation had been solved in his own mind.

The sun reflected off his Ray Bans and then he looked at Dean, and smiled fully, looking like an angel in the late afternoon light.

Dean had no fucking clue what he brought to their relationship. Relationship, fucking hell. Cas held Dean in his hands, and Dean felt raw, naked, but he didn't feel exposed. No matter what, Cas had his back. It was a comfort, reassuring. He knew, if shit went down, Cas was there to rip him out of hell, throw him from purgatory, or maybe to go down guns blazing with him, his very own Sundance kid. He had faith, he'd call it.

Dean planted himself in the driver’s seat and adjusted the rearview mirror. He grabbed his sunglasses from the dash, and rolled his neck. The engine revved beneath the hood of his baby and he put it into gear, rolling out of the Roadhouse parking lot.

He wondered what Cas was up to. He hoped he was in the mood for a drive.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy smokes. Only took me...three years to finish? Well. There ya go.
> 
> *Note: It's never mentioned in Supernatural what Dean's middle name is. I just always had a feeling it would be something slightly embarrassing for Dean though. Marion seemed like the right choice.


End file.
